large white bandage on his forehead. His skin is pale. “Just a concussion, nothing to worry about.”
“I wasn’t ” she says sharply.
He smiles at her, and then his face goes flaccid, his eyes flutter, and he stumbles backward, slamming into the console of buttons, catching himself just before he slumps to the floor. The elevator jerks to a stop. Beth says nothing, does nothing. He breathes deeply once, twice, as if willing the color back into his face and the strength back into his body. His head lolls to one side, and he grasps the railing on the wall for support. There is nothing Beth can do to help; she need not feel guilty for doing nothing.
She feels guilty for being glad about it.
More deep breaths, and soon, his face is no longer white, and the smile is back. And the elevator is not moving.
”I’m fine now,” Powell says, touching his forehead gently. “Happens sometimes. ”
She doesn’t say anything.
He steps away from the wall to look at the console. “I must have hit the emergency stop button. Not to worry, I’ll have us moving again. Momentarily. ”
”You just need to flip the lever,” Beth says, hating to acknowledge him but needing to escape. “It’ll start up again. ”
Instead, he turns his back on the console and steps toward her. She jerks away, but of course, there is nowhere to go. Beth, who knows all the exits, knows that better than anyone.
”You’re never sorry?” he asks, and he sounds almost plaintive.
”For what?”
”You misjudge me, you know.” His voice is soft, and his eyes kind, as they were at the beginning, when the two of them worked long hours in the tiny newsroom, bent over layouts, their heads together. She’d called him Jack, cried on his shoulder, imagined what it might be like were she ten years older. She was no longer fooled. “We understood each other, or we could have. I could have taught you a lot. I could have been a friend. Things might have been…” He looks off to the side and sighs. “Different. ”
”Flip the lever,” she says through gritted teeth. “Now.”
”Scared?” He takes two rapid steps toward her and, before she can move, he’s planted his arms on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. She is trembling. “You’re a smart girl.” His face is inches from hers, his breath sour. She knows she should do something. Spit. Scream. But she’s frozen. “I could do anything.” He leans closer, his eyes locked with hers. When their lips are about to touch, he stops. “But I won’t.”
His arms drop to his sides, and he steps backward again. “Disappointed?”
”Go to hell.”
He shakes his head. “There’s a part of you, Beth, that wants it. I knew it the moment we kissed-”
“When you kissed me, “she snaps.
”When we kissed, I could tell. You want a lot of things you’re not allowing yourself to want. You don’t let yourself do anything about it, but that doesn’t change the facts.”
”You don’t know anything about me,” she whispers. Her throat is tight, as if she’s having one of those dreams where she wants to scream but can’t make a sound.
”I know girls,” he says, nodding. A lock of brown hair flops over his eyes, and he brushes it away. The gesture reminds her of an old Hugh Grant movie. Adorable British charmer fumbles through life and gets the girl. She’d wanted a romantic-comedy life, maybe. But she hadn’t wanted him, she insisted to herself, not really. She hadn’t wanted this. “And I know you. You may be fooling everyone else with that good-girl act, Beth, but you can’t fool me. I’m just sorry you felt you had to try. ”
He flips the lever, and the elevator jerks into motion.
As the doors open, he gives her a cheery salute. “Until we meet again… and something tells me we will.”
She doesn’t say good-bye.
Anyone with information about the whereabouts of Jack Powell or knowledge of his relationship with the late Kaia Sellers should contact the Grace Township Police Department, 555-4523.
“Beth, are we set with that article? We’ve got to lock the front page,” the deputy editor reminded her.
She had an hour left before the paper went in for final proofing, then she had a history presentation to give, and afterward would rush off for yet another job interview, then home, where she could divide the rest of her night between studying for her math test, babysitting her little brothers, and working the phones to finalize logistics for Spirit Day and the senior auction.
She didn’t have time to linger over Powell anymore. She clicks a button on the mouse and locks the article. “This one’s set,” she told her deputy. “Let’s move on.”
Miranda heard the chorus of blondes before she saw them, and their voices-high, flirtatious, infused with a permanent giggle and inevitably ending on a question mark- told her everything she needed to know. As she rounded the corner and approached the lockers, one look confirmed her suspicions. A harem of sophomores, outfitted in standard uniform: high boots, short skirt, midriff-baring shirt, and enough makeup to paint a house.
And there was Kane, towering above them, intense brown eyes sparkling under his chiseled brow, and his smile… that smile was going to destroy her, Miranda often thought. It filled her daydreams-all her dreams, in fact- and rendered her powerless.
She was no better than any of these girls, except that she kept her simpering to herself. And look where it got her: They fluttered around the flame, and she lurked in the shadows, just passing through, nothing to see here but dull, drab Miranda.
She would just keep her head down, she told herself. Walk quickly and quietly down the hall and slip into study hall without anyone noticing her.
“Yo, Stevens! What’s the hurry?”
She turned toward the syrupy smooth voice and at the sight of his familiar smirk was helpless not to favor him with one of her own.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full at the moment,” she told him, flicking a hand toward the girls.
“Beauties fit for a king, don’t you think?” He gave them a magnanimous wave. “Ladies, you can take your leave for the moment-”
“But Kane, we’re here to serve you,” one of the blondes reminded him in a throaty voice.
“What if there’s something you need?” another asked.
“And we can provide anything you need,” the first reminded him.
“I’m sure Stevens here will take good care of me while you’re gone.”
The pom-pom posse looked her up and down. “Doubtful,” one of them grouched. But they knew their role in this little drama: They followed orders and disappeared.
“That,” Miranda began, shaking her head, “may be the most disgusting display I have ever seen.”
Kane shrugged. “Give them a break-they’re young, impressionable, and hey, it’s hard not to go weak in the knees when you’re in the presence of greatness.”
“I’m not talking about them, your highness,” Miranda snorted. “I’m talking about you. Could you be any more of a pig?
He curled an arm around her shoulders and tugged her toward him. “You know you love it.”
“How do you fit that huge ego into that tiny car of yours?” she teased.
“How do you fit that huge chip on your shoulder into that teeny tiny T-shirt?” he retorted.
Miranda blushed, pretending not to notice that he’d noticed her unusually snug shirt- though, of course, why else had she worn it?
“Don’t give me that modest act,” he chided her. “You know you look good.” His hand glided down her back and Miranda caught her breath. “Sure you don’t want to…
God, did she want to. “We talked about this,” she reminded him. She patted him on the shoulder and shook her head sympathetically “It’s so sad-no impulse control. Good thing I’m around to remind you of the rules.”
