Page 33 of Dead Set on You
Although I hate to admit it, Rafael might be right. This may not be my hell, and it’s most certainly not Great-Aunt Julia’s heaven. Arriving at either of those places would mean it’s game over for me, but I’m still here. Which means it’s notoverover, only like a little bit over. And what if that means I still have a chance togo backinstead of moving forward or upward or whichever direction I’m destined to go? What if I can find a way to get this ghost me into the hospital bed me? The thought makes me jerk up and gasp, “Ohmygod.”
“Are you seeing the light?” Rafael’s voice makes my ears perk in his direction.
Scowling, I slowly twist to face him. He watches me with amusement while the truck idles at a stoplight. “You’re infuriating,” I say.
“I think you mentioned that in thePublicity Todayinterview.”
“Ha. I told them you wereincorrigible.”
“Was that before or after you told them you’d mentored me?”
I felt quite proud when that bit of information made it into the final published interview. I remember the day Rafael read it. Sipping my coffee, I watched from my desk as he scanned the piece. His eyebrows danced as he read about how I’d taught him a lot of what he knew, and I experienced a giddiness only he could make me feel. Onlytorturing himmade me feel.
A satisfied smirk tugs at my lips, so I quickly fix my face into a scowl. “Were it not for all ofmywork on the Betton account, you wouldn’t have gotten that promotion before me.”
Rafael tenses, amusement fading. “If you say so.”
He gives me nothing to fight against—just the maddening silence from this morning. I attempt to push the memory of our first major account back into where I store all rage-inducingmemories, but the hurt is still there. Achy and all-consuming, if I let it. Almost three years of friendship, of thinking we were in it together, that we had each other’s backs. Rafael helped me think likeone of the guys, and I helped him pursue accounts likesomeone with an actual plan. I took up golfing (Rafael’s idea) and, for a short—unfortunately unforgettable—time, smoking cigars (my idea). He took up organizing projects in folders and even used a planner—for two weeks. He challenged me to stop overthinking and go for it, and I challenged him to talk less and observe more. He made me see the benefits of networking, and I helped him see the benefits of really knowing what our bosses wanted. And along the way, we spent countless hours together and he became someone who was more than a colleague—a friend. Until he had me cut from the Betton account. Because after almost a year of prep, he decided he didn’t need a colead.
So, when I relied on him implicitly, he took it away—not only the account, but also the sizable commission and the stability that would have come with it. The opportunity to move from the rat-infested basement I was renting to somewhere less hazardous. The chance to work fewer hours and maybe, finally, catch my breath. I cried into a tub of ice cream that night … and came back the next morning, ready to play the game his way. I haven’t looked back since.
Always forward. Until now, that is.
Because the only way forward might be by going back … and using him to help me.
“I understand that this will probably go against your Evie instincts, but I’m hoping you can help me,” I blurt as Rafael steers the truck onto Lake Shore Drive.
A black SUV allows him to merge onto the busy road, and Rafael accelerates with ease. Momentarily frozen by terror, I grasp the edge of the seat, but my hand moves through it. I swallow a frustrated sigh and curl my hands into one another, savoring the solidity of the grip. Of course my hands are useless, butmy ghost ass stays planted just fine. I’d ask questions, but the universe isn’t exactly playing Team Evie.
The thing is, not a lot scares me—Iwasraised by a narcissist—but there’s something about being in a vehicle with someone else in charge of what happens, of how fast and where we go, that makes me feel unmoored. Helpless. A little sick.
I force myself to steady my breathing.
Rafael doesn’t miss any of it. To my shock, the truck slows. “Evie instincts?”
“You know—the knee-jerk inclination to thwart me and take things from me?” The words slip through my lips. His jaw clamps down and flexes, and I inwardly kick myself.
“You have an interesting way of asking for help,” he says, his hands tightening around the steering wheel as he navigates the truck between lanes and cars. Even if he’s not speeding, my breathing hitches. If I didn’t die by a car the night outside the Aviary, perhaps this ride will be it.
My heart pitches against my ribs, and I press my hand against my chest. Distantly, I think I hear the beeping of monitors. Feel a dull throbbing at the base of my skull. Sounds fade. The road blurs.
“Hey.” His voice pulls me to the present moment. “I was kidding about going toward the light.”
I blink and straighten. “It was so tempting,” I say airily, shaking off a panic attack—and potential fainting.
The truck stops at a red light, and I relax long enough to remember I need something from him, something I won’t get playing Evie vs. Rafael. I need a better tactic. Like seeing Rafael as a client, not an opponent. Someone to win over.
While it pains me to ask him for help, he might be my only option.
“As I was saying …” I start.
The light turns green, and Rafael accelerates, following behind another car too closely for my liking. “Maybe you …”My voice falters. I can’t look at the road. This is the point where physical me would be barfing into a bag. Ghost me battles waves of nausea. “You might feel inclined to help me,” I manage through clenched teeth.
We turn onto Michigan Ave., the truck finally slowing. I force air into my lungs.
“What can I help with?” Rafael asks.
Watching the road. Not getting us killed.“Getting me back into my body, preferably,” I say, but I can’t bring myself to look at him … and it has nothing to do with the traffic and everything to do with my situation.
