Page 41 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“It probably was a power surge,” he offers. His voice sounds raw, as if he’s been screaming for hours.

I nod, “Probably. Plus, this building is old. All this money we pay for tuition, you’d think they’d update the infrastructure here.”

His teeth flash under the emergency lights when he smiles. “Well, that’s bureaucracy for you.”

He lets the statement linger for a moment, and I give a brief chuckle, remembering our first conversation.

Argument? Debate.

“Touché,” I offer back.

There’s more silence between us, and I take in a slow, centering breath. I don’t want to be stuck in an elevator any more than he does, but I can still be rational…ish.

Just keep breathing, Shae. It’s the middle of the day, and you know help is on the way.

I press the button again and receive more static, so I pull out my cell phone from the front pocket of my tote, hoping to get a signal.

No such luck.

This is probably your ancestors getting back at you for not following through on your promise earlier.

Movement from the other side of the car breaks me out of my self-beratement, and I watch as Storm takes a small sip from my bottle as if he’s trying to conserve the resource. But he suddenly straightens when our gazes meet and looks away.

Finally, I say softly, “It’s okay to be…rattled. Getting trapped in here is no one’s idea of a good time.” I try to smile, keepingmy voice as neutral as possible. “I’d probably be freaking out too if?—”

“I’m not freaking the fuck out,” he rasps, and I’m sure he can read my side eye even under the limited lights.

“I, ah—” He takes another sip, then lowers the bottle to his lap. When he opens his mouth again, he pauses, gripping the container like a lifeline. “I don’t usually…get like this,” he mutters, looking anywhere but at me. His voice sounds strained, and I feel his discomfort as clearly as I feel my own.

“It’s nothing to apologize for,” I practically whisper, and the sound seems to loud in the small space. I want to say more—to add something to our conversation to help him relax or damn, even laugh. But nothing comes to mind.

I don’t have any words, only feelings.

“Look,” he finally says, his voice a rasp. “This is…it’s just, closed spaces like this—” He cuts himself off and blows out a large breath as if he’s already said too much.

I reach out without thinking and put my hand on his knee. It’s the closest place I could reach without moving my entire body, but even with that small gesture…it feels like the right thing to do.

Everybody needs help sometimes. Even folks like Storm Sandoval.

“It’s okay. We’re in this together, all right?” I let the statement hang in the air long enough for the feeling of overstepping his boundaries to creep in.

I look down at my hand on his knee and quickly go to remove it. But instead of allowing me to return to my side of the cabin, he grabs my wrist, halting my progress.

“No,” he grinds out. Applying a fraction of tension, he pulls me toward him, and I shift my body across the floor to get closer. “Stay. Please.”

Less than a foot separates our bodies when I settle next to him, and his expressions—his anxieties—are clearer from this position. The look on his face telegraphs the real panic he’s valiantly trying to stifle.

And knowing that? Storm Sandoval feels deeply, vulnerably human.

“Okay,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.

There’s another beat of silence before he says, “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything,” he throws back quickly. “Tell me about your family.”

I feel my eyebrows head in the direction of my hairline. “Wow, going deep, are we?” I say softly. His lips curve in the barest hint of a smile, and for the first time, he looks less guarded, less cocky.

---