I’m well-versed in besides music, it’s falling apart.
“You going to the lobby?” she asks. Her gaze seems to flit over mine, ever so briefly, and then she’s staring intently at the wall of buttons.
She sucks in a large gust of air, and I wonder how someone so petite could have lungs so large. And how someone so small can take up so much space in a nearly empty elevator.
Everything about her, though, demands my attention.
I nod, mesmerized by the way her emotions are splayed across her naked face—her upturned nose, her soft cheekbones, and her lashes wet with tears. She’s what muses are made of, and I’ve only had my eyes on her for five seconds flat.
“Yeah, the lobby.”
It’s as if the bullshit photo shoot I just left never happened. Or it’s like it did, but entering this elevator is some alternate reality.
Whatever was fucking with my head earlier no longer matters.
“Then we’re good,” she says, her voice soft, hushed. Like she doesn’t trust it—her words or her strength.
The L is lit, and the elevator starts its descent from the eightieth.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask. I can’t help it. I’m a rescuer. A saver. A fixer.
Why the fuck else did I stay with Gina so damn long? Because I thought if I left she’d fall apart.
Instead, we were what fell apart.
I stayed for nothing.
Believing the best in people is a fucking double-edged sword that I’ve fallen on way too many times.
But, damn—in one minute I know I’d fall for this girl, too.
She has gray eyes, with dark lashes, and the tears welling up in them make her look like she’s going to break. Like any moment everything inside her is going to crash and fall.
I can’t take my eyes off of her.
She doesn’t notice. Her eyes are focused on the rows of buttons that will take us to the ground level, plant our feet on something solid.
But what I really want to do is pick her up and carry her somewhere safe, because I have a bad feeling she’s about to get hurt.
“Do you need something?” I step toward her, and I swear her body leans in to me, as if my words are exactly what she needs.
“I need to get outside.” Her words are spoken softly, breathlessly. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”
“This isn’t a panic attack.” Looking her over, I resist pulling her hair back and pressing my mouth against her pink, parted lips. Damn, I’ve never felt like this before—instant attraction and an absolute need to save the girl in front of me.
“It isn’t?” she asks, deflated. “Well, I’m really angry right now.”
She may be falling apart, but she isn’t overcome with anxiety. I try and explain that to her.
“You aren’t shaking or hyperventilating or freaking out.” But even as I say it I wonder who the hell I think I am to tell her how she feels?
She huffs, dejected. “Actually, this is me freaking out.”
I look at the light over the elevator door. We’re falling quickly, passing the sixtieth, the fortieth floor.
I suppress a smile. When Gina’s upset, she’s a fucking force to be reckoned with. It’s all smashed windows and words thrown harder than a punch.
This, though, is a meltdown, which in my experience is a lot easier to handle.
“I wouldn’t call this a panic attack or angry episode.”
“Oh yeah?” she questions. “What would you call it?”
Floor twenty.
“You’re a mess,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re having a shitty day or an existential crisis, but angry ? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
She wipes her eyes, brushing her tears away, looking at me more closely. “What are you, a therapist?”
I bite my lip. Shit, I’m certainly no shrink. I had to learn that shit in the slammer, when they made me take anger management classes as part of “rehabilitation” or something like that.
Who am I to tell this girl anything?
But I swear, she wants me to. She wants me to tell her what to do next. She swallows, looking up at me with those cloudy eyes, practically
“You going to the lobby?” she asks. Her gaze seems to flit over mine, ever so briefly, and then she’s staring intently at the wall of buttons.
She sucks in a large gust of air, and I wonder how someone so petite could have lungs so large. And how someone so small can take up so much space in a nearly empty elevator.
Everything about her, though, demands my attention.
I nod, mesmerized by the way her emotions are splayed across her naked face—her upturned nose, her soft cheekbones, and her lashes wet with tears. She’s what muses are made of, and I’ve only had my eyes on her for five seconds flat.
“Yeah, the lobby.”
It’s as if the bullshit photo shoot I just left never happened. Or it’s like it did, but entering this elevator is some alternate reality.
Whatever was fucking with my head earlier no longer matters.
“Then we’re good,” she says, her voice soft, hushed. Like she doesn’t trust it—her words or her strength.
The L is lit, and the elevator starts its descent from the eightieth.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask. I can’t help it. I’m a rescuer. A saver. A fixer.
Why the fuck else did I stay with Gina so damn long? Because I thought if I left she’d fall apart.
Instead, we were what fell apart.
I stayed for nothing.
Believing the best in people is a fucking double-edged sword that I’ve fallen on way too many times.
But, damn—in one minute I know I’d fall for this girl, too.
She has gray eyes, with dark lashes, and the tears welling up in them make her look like she’s going to break. Like any moment everything inside her is going to crash and fall.
I can’t take my eyes off of her.
She doesn’t notice. Her eyes are focused on the rows of buttons that will take us to the ground level, plant our feet on something solid.
But what I really want to do is pick her up and carry her somewhere safe, because I have a bad feeling she’s about to get hurt.
“Do you need something?” I step toward her, and I swear her body leans in to me, as if my words are exactly what she needs.
“I need to get outside.” Her words are spoken softly, breathlessly. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”
“This isn’t a panic attack.” Looking her over, I resist pulling her hair back and pressing my mouth against her pink, parted lips. Damn, I’ve never felt like this before—instant attraction and an absolute need to save the girl in front of me.
“It isn’t?” she asks, deflated. “Well, I’m really angry right now.”
She may be falling apart, but she isn’t overcome with anxiety. I try and explain that to her.
“You aren’t shaking or hyperventilating or freaking out.” But even as I say it I wonder who the hell I think I am to tell her how she feels?
She huffs, dejected. “Actually, this is me freaking out.”
I look at the light over the elevator door. We’re falling quickly, passing the sixtieth, the fortieth floor.
I suppress a smile. When Gina’s upset, she’s a fucking force to be reckoned with. It’s all smashed windows and words thrown harder than a punch.
This, though, is a meltdown, which in my experience is a lot easier to handle.
“I wouldn’t call this a panic attack or angry episode.”
“Oh yeah?” she questions. “What would you call it?”
Floor twenty.
“You’re a mess,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re having a shitty day or an existential crisis, but angry ? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
She wipes her eyes, brushing her tears away, looking at me more closely. “What are you, a therapist?”
I bite my lip. Shit, I’m certainly no shrink. I had to learn that shit in the slammer, when they made me take anger management classes as part of “rehabilitation” or something like that.
Who am I to tell this girl anything?
But I swear, she wants me to. She wants me to tell her what to do next. She swallows, looking up at me with those cloudy eyes, practically