At The Elevator
1336 Words
At The Elevator
MARCUS pushed through the sliding doors of the Springfield Plaza Mall, the blast of cold air-conditioning hitting his rough face as he stepped inside. It was still morning, the weekday crowd thin, but Marcus carried himself like the busiest person in the building, his heavy boots thudding against the polished floor, his broad shoulders rolling with a false sense of importance. He didn’t bother adjusting his wrinkled flannel shirt or the baseball cap sitting crookedly on his head. He was here for one thing, and one thing only.
Liquor.
He took the escalator up to the second floor, headed straight into the liquor store, and grabbed a handheld basket without greeting anyone. He moved down the aisle like he owned the place, snatching two bottles of Jack Daniel’s off the shelf, then adding a bottle of Jim Beam for good measure. He stared at the labels, satisfied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin that revealed his uneven, nicotine-stained teeth.
He placed the bottles on the counter, paid, stuffed the receipt into his pocket, and turned to leave.
But halfway to the exit of the store, he paused.
A thought struck him, one he found brilliant, clever, downright strategic.
Why go straight home when he could make a stop first?
He could swing by Elena’s workplace, call her out in front of her coworkers, and tell her she needed to take the rest of the day off. Her husband needed breakfast, homemade breakfast and she was going to come home and make it.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head smugly.
“Man, I’m a damn genius,” he muttered.
On impulse, he veered into the supermarket attached to the mall. He didn’t even look at the signs overhead; he simply grabbed items the way a man grabs things when he knows someone else will be doing the cooking.
He began tossing groceries into his cart: a pack of baby spinach, a bag of shredded carrots, two large beefsteak tomatoes, a bottle of Cajun seasoning, one medium-sized yellow onion, a pack of chicken thighs, a small bag of russet potatoes, a loaf of sourdough bread he already planned to tear into on the drive, and a six-pack of generic soda.
The cashier offered a polite, rehearsed smile as she packed everything into a brown paper grocery bag, but Marcus didn’t even look at her. He drummed his fingers impatiently, staring past her like she was furniture. When she pushed the bag toward him, he grunted, grabbed it by the top, and walked off without a word.
Exiting the mall, he walked toward the parking lot with a swagger— quick, heavy steps that suggested irritation at anyone walking too slowly or daring to cross his path. He carried the groceries in one hand, the liquor bottles in the other, his lips still curled into that self-satisfied smirk.
The sun beat down on the asphalt, making the heat rise in shimmers, but Marcus barely noticed. He headed straight for his beat-up silver sedan parked crookedly across two lines— a habit he refused to change. He yanked the back door open and dropped the paper bag onto the seat with zero care, the potatoes rolling to the edge. Then he placed the liquor down more carefully, almost reverently, as if it were the only thing in his life worth protecting.
As he slammed the door shut, he muttered under his breath, the words low, harsh, and meant only for himself:
“Elena better be ready. I’m coming to get her. She is gonna go home and make me some real food this morning.”
***
Elena burst out of the restroom like a hunted animal, her breath sharp and ragged as she sprinted down the hallway. Her shoes slapped against the polished office floor, the fluorescent lights blurring above her, the world narrowing into nothing but fear, pure, primal fear.
Was this how her morning would really go?
She didn’t stop until she reached the wide-open working floor where dozens of employees sat at their desks, typing, talking, and focusing on screens. The moment she stumbled into the space, people looked up, first annoyed at the disruption, then startled at her trembling form.
“Help me… help me, I just walked—”
“Elena?”
The voice cut through the room like a blade dipped in ice.
It was cold, controlled, and unmistakable.
She froze mid-sentence.
He was there. Eamon. Walking through the doorway as though he had simply taken a calm stroll from his office. His left hand fumbled absently with the button of his suit jacket, as if this were just another Friday morning for him. His right hand shoved in his pocket.
Her heart fell straight through her body.
“No… no, no…” she whispered, backing away, words tumbling out in terror. The employees stared, eyes flicking between her and the CEO with confusion and growing unease.
“Go… to… hell. I quit.”
A collective gasp rippled across the room.
Eamon’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but something far more unreadable.
“You can’t quit,” he said, his voice a low winter chill. “Not you.”
Her lips parted, ready to shout back, when suddenly— A sharp beam of light.
A flicker, faint, brief, but unmistakably unnatural, flashed across the space.
And instantly, every employee who had been watching began turning away, one after the other. Their expressions went blank. Their movements synchronized like puppets being pulled on invisible strings.
They stood, gathered their belongings, and walked out in silence.
Her terror skyrocketed.
“No— no, no, no!” Elena cried, reaching toward them helplessly. “Don’t leave! Please!”
But they didn’t even look at her. They filed out of the hall as though guided by something unseen, something she couldn’t understand.
When the last one disappeared around the corner, she turned back.
Eamon stood exactly where he had been, hands now folded neatly behind him, a faint curl of interest at the corner of his lips.
He was enjoying the fear radiating off her.
“You… you… stay away from me,” she stammered, lifting her right hand between them as though her trembling fingers could stop him.
He took one slow step forward.
She bolted.
Her legs nearly buckled with panic as she sprinted toward the elevators, stabbing at the button repeatedly with shaking fingers.
“Come on, come on!” she breathed desperately.
The silver doors finally slid open with an agonizing slowness.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He was inside. Standing still. His back turned to her, shoulders relaxed as if he had been waiting for her to find him there.
He turned his head slightly, then fully, eyes locking with hers.
“So,” he said quietly, hands still behind him, voice echoing faintly inside the metal walls, “why can’t I touch you?”
She stumbled backwards, nearly losing her balance.
“Look, I don’t know,” she choked out. “Just don’t touch me.”
“I won’t,” he replied calmly. “Not until I figure out who you are.” His gaze sharpened and darkened. “Until then, you won’t leave my side.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets, it looked casual but that was terrifying.
Her eyes widened.
“So what do you suggest? Hold hands?”
Eamon’s expression barely shifted.
“Let’s skip the touching,” he said smoothly, lifting his left hand slightly.
There and then, instinct screamed.
Before he could react further, Elena snapped her gaze to his hand, grabbed it with her left hand, and clamped down tight.
His skin sizzled beneath her touch. A burn that is raw, blistering and impossible.
Eamon winced sharply.
Using the moment, she yanked him out of the elevator with all the strength terror gave her, then darted inside. The doors slid closed instantly.
He stood outside, watching her with unreadable eyes as the elevator sealed shut.
- Writer
