Page 9 of His Sassy Intern
“Why?” Holly only has to look at me to know I mean business. ”Fine. She’s in thebasement.”
We hurry through the partying crowd. Half of them are doing versions of the dance fromThrilleras the song plays—some better than others, depending on natural dance talent, stages of inebriation, and the amount of wiggle room they have to work with inside their costumes. One guy dressed in a Blue Man Group stretch skinsuit costume is hitting all the right angles. The dude who fashioned a standing dachshund out of cardboard—not so much. But at least they're all way more lighthearted than the three of us. I’m here to party, dammit, not clean up the crazylady’smess.
Holly shows us the door to the basement. “Okay girls. Just make a right, then two lefts when you get down these steps. It’s a huge space, so look for the cordoned-off red velvet rope barriers. She’s in the roombehindit.”
I wave a hand to stop her. “Hang on right there, honey. You’re notcoming?”
She shakes her head absently. Or maybe that’s guilt. “If I go down there and let her out, she'll know it was me. It’s better if you two go alone. You can just say you wandered into the room andfoundher.”
“Why would she even think it was youatall?”
Holly stares at her nails. “She wouldn’t. I’ve always been nice to her. I just feel it’s better this way.” Her lips start to tremble. Tears well up in her eyes, and she sits on the gray leather, tufted seat cushion beside the door. “I just can’t face her, guys. Reese really hurt me back then. The day that I told her I was going to marry Carver, it was during the first break at grade school. She was on him by lunch! I know it was just third grade, but I loved him… I really did,” she whimpers. “I think I still do, but he won’t even look in my direction because of who mydadis.”
Wow. What a revelation. It doesn’t excuse Holly from what she’s done tonight, but hell, I did not know she's had an almost lifelong hankering for Carver. Sure, I’ve noticed them checking each other out, but wow. That sure explains a hell of a lot. Holly’s dad is the head coach of LSU’s football team, and Carver is one of the top players. Even Levi goes on and on about the kid. That would make Holly completely off-limits to that entire team. Forbidden fruit. I doubt any college athlete at all would chance to look at her. Her dad can probably get a ping pong player cut from an LSU team if he so desires. No wonder she’s gone allBlack Swanonus.
Wendy and I sit on each side of her. I rub her back while Wendy digs around in her purse fortissues.
“It’s all right, hun,” I tell her. “I’m sorry she did that to you… and it sucks that your dad being head coach cramps your social life. I really do, but you have to see that this… this stunt is taking things too far. You do see that,don’tyou?”
“Maybe alittle.”
“Good.” I look at her hunched-over sobbing form, and nod at Wendy. “You drove here,right?”
“Yes. I parked about ablockaway.”
“Take her home. I’ll get Reese out of the coffin and make sure she’s not dead,” I tell her, smiling inwardly because what I just uttered can only be said on Halloween. On any other day of the year, that statement would land me in a mental hospital for observation as an unstable necrophiliac-slash-sociopath, or in an interview room down at the police department. I fucking love this holiday. “And Holly, get your credit card ready, because you’re replacing all the pink shit you almost lit up inflames.”
“Okay,” she slobbers, getting to her feet withWendy.
“I’ll stay with her until you get in,”Wendyadds.
We have a group hug. “Thanks, hun. I’ll see you ladies back at the dorm,” I say, and head toward the door to thebasement.
Unsure of what state of panic and delirium Holly will be in, I don’t waste any time. I take the broad, smooth concrete steps to the well-lit lower level, and I follow Holly’s exact directions until I get to the room in question. Crossing over the barrier, I push open the door. Yes, this is the place. Dim large room, sleek black casket on a wheeled copper stand in the middle. It’s the same coffin those frat boys were bringing in earlier. The only problem is it’s eerily silent in here, even though right outside, I can still hearEvery Breath You Takeplaying pretty loudly from upstairs. Which incidentally, makes me even more nervous. Who needs to listen to a song by a band called the Police, one that promises to stalk and monitor your every movement when you’re up tonogood?
“Reese?” I say, stepping around to unlatch the top of the coffin. I hope to God she’s alive in there. It takes all my strength to open the thing. Reese is inside. Awake. Taking selfies on hersmartphone.
“Oh hey, Mary Anne,” she saysnonchalantly.
“Are you all right?” I put my hand out to help her sit up, studying her carefully. Why is she not freaking outrightnow?
“Yes,I’mgood.”
I look around the room. “Let me find you something you can use to step down moreeasily.”
“All right,” she answers, taking another photo of herself with her head turned tooneside.
I drag over a wooden turn-of-the-century armoire covered in dust. “How long were youinhere?”
“Not long,” she answers and gets on her knees to keep the box stable. She flings one leg over the side. “Maybeanhour?”
I help her dust off her Wonder Woman costume when she’s safely on solid ground. “So, uh, Reese, are you sure everything is okay? I mean, I’m helping you get out of a casket right now, and you don’t look upsetatall.”
She draws her eyebrows together and heads for the door. “Why would I be? I got almost an hour of silence from the chaos upstairs. My uncles have done way worse pranks at Halloween. If you think this is bad, try waking up at three in the morning to the buzz of a real-life chainsaw going off eight feet away fromyourhead.”
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” I say, relieved. She’s unperturbed, and I’m feeling lucky, so I add, “Hey, there was also a little accident up in your room with some, uh, lighter fluid. I have to apologize in advance. Pretty much everything you own that’s pink got trashed. But I swear it’ll all be replaced. The girls and I will take you shopping next weekend or whenever you’re free. We’ll make a dayofit.”
“Sure,” she utters. I tilt my neck to see what she’s so busily tapping into her phone. She’s on Instagram, asking if the shots she took while inside the coffin look real enough to send to her uncles as payback for the chainsaw wake-upcall.
