Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Hercules watches me trying to warm myself from beneath his gathered brows, fingers twitching in the crook of his elbow. “Do you want my sweatshirt?”
He jerks his bearded chin downward at his navy blue hoodie, which is covered in paint and cement splatters, like the rest of him.
“No,” I say immediately. “But thanks.”
“How about my overcoat?” asks the Duke, very smoothly. Already taking it off.
Hercules hangs his head a little.
“No, thank you.” I have to lean sideways to answer the Duke, because Hercules is taking up my entire line of vision. For some stupid reason, I feel the need to add, “I…wasn’t turning down his sweatshirt because it’s dirty.”
“Why did you turn it down?” British wants to know. “You’re shaking. And I—”
“You’re an expert on shaking women,” I interrupt. “Yeah, we get it, dude.”
There’s a hint of a smile on Hercules’s mouth now and I don’t know why I feel relieved about that? Was I worried I hurt this stranger’s feelings by turning down his sweatshirt? I really do need that tequila faceplant.
“I like boundaries. They’re healthy and give me a sense of power in a world where I don’t have much,” I say, pulling up the internet browser on my phone, hoping to find a contact number for whichever city agency runs this godforsaken tram. “That’s why I turned down the sweatshirt and the overcoat. While I’m at it, I’m preemptively turning down whatever you’re going to offer me, too, British. I have a feeling it’s flesh colored and curves slightly to the right.”
He belts out a laugh. “I fucking knew you recognized me.”
I have raised the eyebrows of both Hercules and the Duke, but I ignore the slight burning sensation in my cheeks and continue my hunt for the right phone number. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ve probably…been entertained by him, too. Maybe you were just more focused on his acting partner?”
“Ah, love. They never have to act.” British sticks out his hand toward the Duke. “Tobias Atwater. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“We’re dangling above the East River in a death trap,” says the Duke, very succinctly. “‘Pleased’ is not the word I would use. Quit the inappropriate bullshit. She’s not interested.”
They shake, despite the very clear fighting words, although they look like they’re trying to rip one another’s hands off, jaw muscles snapping formidably. “It’s obvious the woman can handle herself and doesn’t need you speaking for her,” Tobias responds with forced charm. “Although if you were speaking for her, your name would be…”
A sharp nod. “Banks Pearson.”
They still appear to be contemplating whether or not to toss each other through the glass window into sewage-infested waters below.
Hercules grunts and takes a step closer to me. Like he wants to guard me against any potential violence. And it’s so odd, because I find it very difficult to trust people—but I almost move into the circle of his warmth without thinking. Just like that. He must be an Aquarius and my chaotic Gemini energy is simply vibing with his.
Oh, I took an astrology class last year. Dipped out halfway through it, of course.
When Tobias and Banks finally stop shaking hands and retreat to their corners, I tap the number I found on Google. The line rings four times, then descends into a series of beeps. I call back three more times before someone answers with a harried, “Yes?”
“Yes, hello.” I plug my opposite ear out of habit. “Myself and three other passengers are stuck up here. What’s going on?”
Quite a lot of noise is happening in the background. Ringing phones, voices, a blaring television. “Mechanical failure. The technician is on his way.”
“Any idea how long before we’re moving again?”
“Not at this time, no. As soon as possible.”
“Is there a way to turn the heat back on?” I whisper. It’s a dumb question. The answer is obviously no, but I am trembling now and beginning to pity myself, my brain projecting images of sweatpants and my fluffy white bed comforter. God, I would give anything to be under the covers in some fuzzy socks right now. Experts say to dress for the job you want. I want to be a reporter. A staff writer at the paper. So I’m wearing a pencil skirt and a white, button-down, cap-sleeve blouse. My tombstone is going to read: Here lies Elise Brandeis. Disappointing daughter. Human icicle.
The line has gone dead in my ear, so I blow out a breath and hang it up, searching for a distraction from my imaginary epitaph—too real. And if I’m engaging strangers in conversation, that’s when I’m truly desperate. “So.” I try to keep my rear teeth from clenching and fail. “What brings you three to b-beautiful Roosevelt Island?”
None of them answer.
They’re all distressed in their own way over my condition. I’m no expert, but said condition is probably verging on frostbite. Without a mirror in front of me, I have a feeling my lips are turning blue. They obviously notice—and I think it’s why they each take a measured step in my direction.