Page 1 of Flirtasaurus
Chapter One
“Shit.”
Oh, my gosh, no. Shit, shit, shit!
“Hey! Hey, is anyone out there? I’m stuck in the elevator!”
First day on the freaking job and I get stuck in the elevator. I think. Right? We’re not moving, so that must mean we’re stuck.
Why am I using “we” statements? I’m alone. Alone in a stuck-ass elevator in a prestigious establishment without a friend or a resource to my name.
“Buttons, buttons, buttons. I should press all the buttons.”
Or pressnoneof the buttons? Shouldn’t there be a universal protocol for what you do to all the buttons when you’re stuck in an elevator?
I push the door open button.
Nothing.
The call button.
Nothing.
The little red firefighter hat button.
Nothing.
“I’m going for it. I’m pushing all the buttons.” I let out a surprisingly fierce but feral sound as I slide my hands down the entire panel of elevator buttons, a la Will Ferrell inElf.
“Rrrrrr-ahhhhhh!”
Dammit.
Nothing.
All right. This is a museum, so the place is crawling with scientific minds, yeah? Surely, someone knows how to get a damn elevator door to open. I’m hella early, though, so I’m not sure anyone else is even around to hear me.
“Not panicking. Not panicking. I’m not panicking.”
I am totally panicking.
“ANYBODY OUT THERE!? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
I know what you’re thinking, but I’m gonna stop you right there. This is not one of those stories where the adorable hot mess of a woman spends twenty chapters bumbling and stumbling her way through life until, at long last, she finds a man who accepts all her quirks and crazy. Don’t get me wrong, I love those books, and I love me a hot mess, but that just isn’t me. I’m the opposite of a hot mess. I’m what you’d call a-a-a… cold… clean? Calm? No, that doesn’t really capture the feeling I’m going for here. A warm… organized person?
What I’m saying is I have my proverbial shit together.
Clearly.
“GET ME OUT OF HERE OR IMMA LOSE MY SHIT!”
Nope. Keeping my shit contained.
“Breathing in… breathing out. Breathing in… breathing out.”
Wow, that breathing stuff kinda sorta works. Who knew! I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored ceiling. Hm. Have you ever noticed that mirrored ceilings seem to be reserved solely for sex dungeons and elevators? Elevators and sex dungeons… what in the world do they have in common to require the same ceiling design?
Oh man, I’m spiraling. All right, it’s pep talk time. I peer up at my reflection and look deeply into my own terrified eyes.
