Chapter Thirty-Seven
Amiya
A fter dropping off the ranunculus for the new, improved bouquet to Naomie and deftly avoiding her having a hissy fit over my ripped dress, I meet Lennon at the stairwell to help him return the ladder.
Why is it harder, carrying it back down than it was carrying it up?
He’s holding the front and leading the way, bearing most of the weight. Once we make it to the bottom of the steps, I guide him to the third door down.
“I think that’s the one we borrowed it from,” I say.
He uses his elbow to press the handle down and his foot to wedge the door open.
He takes a step inside and stretches as far as he can to hold it open for me.
“I’ve got it,” I say, and he moves deeper into the dark space.
I, however, do not have it, and the heavy steel door starts to close on my leg as I hold on to the bottom of the ladder with one arm and feel around on the wall for the light switch.
“Owwww,” I cry.
Lennon lets out a string of curses as he drops his end and turns just in time to pull me into the pea-sized space before the door crushes my shin.
“Thank you,” I gasp.
We’re now wedged between the wall and the ladder that barely fits the length of the small closet.
“Are you sure this is where it’s supposed to go?” he asks.
I blow a loose curl from my eyes and look around. “Yeah, no. This doesn’t look right. It was hanging on a set of hooks. And the storage room was much bigger. I must have miscounted the doors.”
He sighs. “Okay. Get the door and hold it open. I’ll back this thing out,” he instructs.
I do as he asks, but when I try to open the door, the handle doesn’t move. I begin to frantically jerk at the metal bar, but it doesn’t budge.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I chant as my chest grows tight.
“What’s wrong?” Lennon asks.
“It’s locked,” I cry.
“It’s probably just stuck. Let me try.”
I let go and back up. Trying to make myself as small as I can, I press my body against the wall so he can squeeze past me.
Lennon grabs the handle and uses all his strength to attempt to wrench it loose. When that doesn’t work, he steps back and rams his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. Three times, but to no avail.
“Fuck, we’re stuck,” he says as he taps his forehead against the door in frustration.
He turns to me. “Do you have your phone?”
I look from his face down to the formfitting dress hugging my body and back up.
“Where the hell would I be hiding a phone?” I shriek.
He pats at his uniform pockets. “I don’t have mine either. It’s in my other pants, up in the dressing room.”
My eyes dart around the tiny space as panic blooms in my chest.
We have to get out of here.
“Legs, are you okay?” Lennon asks, the annoyance in his voice turning to concern.
I begin shaking my head as my throat tightens and tears blur my vision.
“Hey, breathe,” he commands as he reaches for me.
“I can’t. I can’t breathe,” I say as I claw at his arms.
He squeezes past the end of the ladder so he can make it to where I’m against the back wall and turn me around.
He crouches down to look me in the eye. “Amiya, talk to me.”
“I … I … we’re … trapped.” I gasp every word.
“It’s okay. Someone will find us eventually,” he says.
At the word eventually , I start to hyperventilate.
“Fuck.”
He grips my waist and lifts me so that my head is above the ladder and my ass rests against a raised edge on the side wall of the closet. Then, he moves between my legs.
“Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic,” he says.
I don’t tell him that—because I can’t breathe and talking doesn’t work without breathing.
He holds me in place with one hand, and the other goes to his hair as he contemplates what to do. Then, he lets go of his hair and threads his hand into mine. Tugging hard, he pulls my head forward and crashes his mouth against mine.