He Will be My Ruin

“Hey, are you going to be okay?”

“Claustrophobia,” I manage to force out. I rarely ever admit that to anyone. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable, two things I hate. Plus, most people think it’s some benign condition, that it’s “all in your head.” It is, technically. It just has overwhelming physical side effects to go along with it.

“Well, don’t worry, it’ll get fixed soon. We’ll just have to hang out here until it does.”

Hang. Visions of the suspension and brake system failing next and us plummeting to the ground take over all my rational thoughts. I shrug off my winter coat and unwrap the scarf that threatens to strangle me, then drop to the floor before I pass out.

“Good idea.” Jace takes his time, easing his coat off and folding it neatly before laying it down. He sits, so close that his shoulder rubs against mine. I don’t pull away because right now he isn’t all of those other things I suspect him of being. He’s just a living, breathing human who’s trapped in here with me. My senses—already operating on overload—absorb the smell of his spicy cologne and his minty breath, the sound of his sigh, the warmth of his body heat. It helps ease the rising panic, but only a touch.

Jace shuts his phone’s flashlight off and, after punching a few numbers, holds his cell to his ear. I curl my arms around my chest and listen to him give the 9-1-1 dispatcher our details in a very calm and businesslike manner—the building’s address, number of occupants. State of health.

It’s pitch-black and I still somehow feel his eyes on me. “My fellow rider is claustrophobic so this isn’t the best situation for her.” He listens quietly and answers questions sporadically. I can imagine what he’s being asked. “Yes . . . she sounds like she’s short of breath. Yes . . . she’s trembling. Yes . . . I’m pretty sure she’s having a panic attack.”

I close my eyes and begin counting to twenty inside my head. That sometimes helps.

“Listen, my phone is going to die any second,” I hear Jace tell the operator. “Okay . . . Yup. I can do— Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Shit.” I hear rather than see his hand drop to his lap. “End of the day. Of course my phone needs a charge. Do you have yours?”

“No.” I do, but I don’t get reception in elevators, and explaining that to him will take too much effort. I startle as fingers graze my elbow, my forearm, until they find my shaking hand and coil around it, squeezing lightly.

“You don’t need to panic. We’re going to be just fine.”

“That’s not . . .” People just don’t get it.

“Just take deep breaths, calm down . . . you’re overreacting.”

I grit my teeth against my rising annoyance. “Did the dispatcher tell you to say these things?”

There’s a moment’s pause, like he’s deciding what he should admit to. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do me a favor? If you talk to her again, tell her she’s an idiot. You don’t tell someone who’s having a panic attack to calm down. It only makes them feel crazy, which makes everything worse.” My words shoot out of my mouth in rapid fire, soaked in bitterness.

A finger grazes over the fleshy part of my thumb. “Okay, what should I do?”

“Just talk.”

“About?”

“I don’t care! Anything. Your job . . . college . . . your dog . . .” I’m scrambling, my words choppy, my breaths ragged. “Just talk about yourself.” I mutter under my breath, “You shouldn’t have a problem doing that.”

He exhales and I think he’s getting ready to tell me to fuck off after that jab. I’d deserve it. Before he has a chance, I throw out, “So, your father’s a governor?”

“Yup.”

“What’s that like?”

“Fine, I guess.”

The seconds tick by, every single one taking far too long because I’m stuck inside this elevator and apparently my companion doesn’t know how to carry on a conversation unless he’s earning money from it.

“Does the media ever hound you?”

“They’ve had their moments, but I think I lucked out in that regard.”

“How so?”

He sighs. Uninterested in the topic. “Well . . . campaigns can be tough on kids. When your parents are in politics, stupid moves will always come back to bite you in the ass somewhere down the line. Luckily, I was smart enough to keep my nose clean over the years.”

Except for those escorts you pay to have sex, right? Having that conversation would definitely distract me from this hanging coffin we’re trapped in.

“He’s already talking about running again, isn’t he?”

“You’ve been doing your research.”

“Of course I have. I’m no idiot.”

“No, I definitely don’t take you for one.” A light chuckle and then a pause. “So, what’s it like to be an energy empire heiress?”

“It’s a dream come true.”

“Right. That’s why you were arrested for protesting one of your family’s plants?”

“You’ve been doing your research.”

“Of course I have.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I’m no idiot.”

Touché. “I was eighteen . . . I was an idiot back then.” I figured that in a crowd of two thousand people, I would be invisible. I wasn’t. I made the headlines that week, feeding the critics more ammunition against Sparkes Energy.

“And now you spend your time playing Mother Teresa.”

“You should try it sometime, if you can stop counting your money for more than a second, Scrooge.”

“At least I’ve earned my money,” he throws back without missing a beat.

“My, has Jace Everett lost his charm so quickly?”

His body tenses next to me. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“What’s wrong, afraid I’ll take my funds away before you get to play?”

He clears his throat. “Clearly this situation is stressful for you. I doubt you’re normally such a—”

A fire alarm sounds somewhere in the building.

And suddenly I don’t even hear what Jace is saying because all I can think about is flames tearing through this skyscraper and cooking us alive. I’m going to die in this little box before they find us, which could be in forty hours, like that recent story on the news about that woman who was stuck in an elevator all weekend, but no we won’t be because Jace called 9-1-1 so they know we’re in here, but if the building is burning down, they won’t be able to get to us and—