Chapter 22 Eliana
ELIANA
grease fire: /ɡrēs ?fī(?)r/: noun
Bastian’s hands are still flat against the table where he slapped them down. I can’t stop looking at them. In part, that’s because my vision is pretty fuzzy at anything beyond ten feet or so.
But it’s also because, no matter how angry he is, those hands remain as beautiful as ever. They’ve got a hold on me, no pun intended. Try as I might, I can’t figure out how to wriggle free of their grasp.
The other reason I’m looking so intently at every curve of his knuckles is that I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I look in his eyes.
I know he’s glaring at me. I know those brows are wrinkled and that mouth is pursed.
And if all that wasn’t a dead giveaway, I know by the rasping, jagged rhythm of his inhales and exhales that he’s very intent on ripping me a new one.
“What the hell was that?” he asks.
Like when he first called the meeting, his voice is at a perfectly reasonable volume. But I flinch anyway, because something in it is worse than a roar.
I flinch inwardly, that is. I won’t let him see me rattled. Fear is catnip for bullies like Bastian, and I refuse to feed him a single bite.
“I’d call it me defending myself,” I fire back.
“You made me look incompetent in front of my senior team. That’s twice now.”
“You did it first!” I sound like a whiny little first grader saying I’m rubber, you’re glue, but I don’t care. “You called me in here specifically to blame me for something that wasn’t my fault. What did you expect me to do? Take it lying down? Say ‘Thank you, sir; may I have some more’?”
His jaw ticks. “I expected you to be a team player.”
“I am!” I cry out again. “But I’m not your scapegoat.”
I jump to my feet in a misguided attempt to level the playing field. All it really does is remind us both that he is much, much taller than me. Maybe I should pull a Dead Poets Society and get on the table?
But then I finally look in Bastian’s eyes, and something I see there takes a bit of the wind out of my sails. Not all of it—I’m still righteously pissed—but a note of concern is joining the symphony of Oh hell no he didn’t that’s playing in my head.
“What is this really about, Bastian?” I ask, a touch quieter this time. “It feels personal.”
He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Two nights ago, we were eating oysters and laughing. We hugged. You drove me to—” I shake my head. “Look, the point is, things were fine. Now, you’re dressing me down in front of half the company for something you know damn well is not my fault.”
The fact that the phrase “dressing me down” just came out of my lips is nightmare fuel, but I pull a Taylor Swift and shake it off. Innuendo is the last thing that this grease fire of a conversation needs.
“Friday was a mistake.”
Ouch.
He used four words, but he might as well have slapped me across the face. The effect would have been the same.
I visibly recoil from him, not because I had so much emotional investment in our late night oyster not-a-date, but because the brutality of those four little words says that, even if I did feel like a teensy bit of something had changed, I’d be an absolute fucking idiot for thinking that.
“We got too comfortable,” he continues in this lifeless, monotone growl that makes this morning’s ants go deathly still. “Lines were blurred. This—” He gestures back and forth between us. “—needs to stop.”
I swallow hard. “This what, exactly?”
“You know what.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid someone might overhear?” I gesture to the office beyond, where people are definitely watching us argue. “Or are you just a coward?”
That jaw ticks again, closer and closer to detonating. “Choose your next words very carefully, Eliana.”
God, how I wish I could.
If I could say the things I want to say, I’d want to scream that the brine of an oyster and the dulcet tones of Sir Mix-A-Lot are the only things in a long time that have made me forget about my mother, my disease, or all the myriad ways life has disappointed me.
If I could say the things I want to say, I’d say that the way his voice rasped when he told me goodnight while dropping me off has lived in my head rent-free ever since.
If I could say the things I want to say, I’d tell him about the dreams that won’t stop and the fantasies that won’t end, and I’d say Fuck the glass walls; I don’t care who sees; just please put those hands on me before one or both of us goes insane.
But I don’t say any of that, of course. I’ve spent my whole life swallowing back important things. Endure—that’s what I do best.
So that’s what I keep doing.
“Fine. You want professional? Let’s be professional.
” I snatch up my tablet. “I’ll go down to the Olympus site to inspect the HVAC situation myself.
I’ll document everything, get statements from Frank and the engineers, and compile a full report on exactly where the specifications went wrong and who signed off on what. ”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, it’s absolutely necessary. Because if you’re going to keep implying this is my fault, I’m going to establish a paper trail that proves otherwise. My report will be on your desk by close of business today.”
I turn and start for the door. I’m aware of Bastian letting out a disgruntled sigh behind me, but I don’t look back. I just keep my head high as I march out.
I’m equally aware of the whole office watching me do a walk of shame and/or fame out of the conference room. They aren’t sure what happened. Neither am I, but I won’t let that stop me from putting on a brave face. I keep going, driving toward the elevators.
But then a familiar scent hits my nostrils, and a familiar heat warms up my side, and a familiar stride falls in sync with mine.
“What’re you doing?” I ask as Bastian easily keeps pace with me.
“What does it look like? I’m coming with you.”
I stop so abruptly that Bastian doesn’t realize it at first. A step or two later, he stops and turns, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly aristocratic way of his.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You just spent the last fifteen minutes eviscerating me in front of the entire senior team. I think I’ve had enough of your sparkling company for one day, thanks.”
“I did what?”
“‘Eviscerate.’ It means ‘to be a monstrous asshole in a public setting.’ Kind of a trend with you, honestly.”
“I know what ‘eviscerate’ means,” he growls. “I was— You know what? I’m not doing this with you.” He smashes the elevator button. “You seem to forget you’re the one who works for me.”
“Believe me,” I mutter under my breath, “I couldn’t forget that if I tried.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. We both stand there, neither of us moving.
“Are you getting in or not?” he asks at last.
“That depends. Are you?”
His eyes flash. “Yes.”
“Then no.”
“Eliana—”
“Bastian—”
We glare at each other across the threshold. Behind us, I can feel the weight of approximately forty eyeballs boring into our backs. Kyle (Shithead Kyle, not either of the other ones) is definitely chewing sunflower seeds again. I can hear the crunch-and-spit from here.
Bastian steps into the waiting elevator. “Get in.”
“Make me.”
I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth, because the air between us goes nuclear, his pupils dilate, and my breath catches.
Then he reaches out, wraps one hand around my wrist—not tight, never tight, but firm enough that resistance is clearly futile—and tugs me into the elevator.
The doors slide shut.
Just like that, we’re alone.
“You can’t just—” I start, but he releases my wrist and jabs the button for the lobby so hard I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter.
“I can, and I did.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine,” he says.
I cross my arms to match his. For the first three or so floors’ worth of descent, we mirror each other’s posture. It’s a coin flip as to who is being more stubborn and petulant.
He breaks the standoff first. “The site is twenty minutes away. That gives us forty minutes round trip to figure out our next move.”
“‘Our’ next move? We’re a team now? Since when? Five minutes ago, this was all my fault, remember?”
The elevator does a weird shudder as we pass the sixteenth floor. Bastian braces one hand against the wall next to me. “I never said it was your fault.”
“You absolutely did!”
“I said your name was on the approval sheet. Which it is.”
“Along with three other people’s names, including yours!” My voice is rising, echoing off the metal walls. “But somehow, I’m the only one who got dragged into a conference room and interrogated like I’m on trial for crimes against ventilation!”
“I wasn’t interrogating you—”
“Actually, you’re right. It felt more like a public execution. You wanted everyone to see you put me in my place. Big, bad Bastian being his big, bad self.”
His jaw clenches. “That’s not what I was doing.”
“Then what were you doing, Bastian? Because from where I’m standing, it looks an awful lot like you’re trying to push me away by being as much of an asshole as humanly possible.”
The elevator continues its descent. Fifteenth floor. Fourteenth. Thirteenth. It keeps spazzing every time, which is not doing great things for my confidence in all things mechanical.
Bastian’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “You want honesty? Fine. You’re right. Friday was a mistake. Not because the oysters weren’t good or because I didn’t enjoy your company, but because—” He stops himself, jaw working like he’s physically chewing back the words.
“Because what?”
“Because I can’t do this with you.”
My heart spasms just like the elevator keeps doing. “Pardon me?”
“This, whatever the hell this is…” He gestures between us again, the same way he did upstairs, like that encompasses so much.
“This thing where you—where I—like I’m not—” He cuts himself off again and runs a hand through his hair.
“You work for me. That’s it. That’s all this can be. Because otherwise—”
The elevator lurches.
Hard.
We both stumble. Bastian’s hand shoots out to steady me, gripping my elbow, and for one suspended moment, we’re pressed together, his chest against my shoulder, his breath warm on my temple.
Then the lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
The elevator grinds to a halt with a metallic screech that makes my teeth hurt.
And then—pitch blackness.
Complete. Total. Absolute darkness.