Love Game by Elise Sax Page B

going to charge it again. I didn’t think her old bones could handle the impact another time. Remington took a step toward her, probably getting ready to contain her if she freaked out. I couldn’t figure him out. Hewas as cool as a cucumber and barely uttered a word. Was he some James Bond type, ready with a plan to protect us all, or was he an overgrown dumb stud muffin who was too stupid to talk?
    As if to answer, Bridget’s stomach growled. “I didn’t eat breakfast,” she explained. “And I was up all night.”
    “Mavis has cupcakes,” Lucy said.
    “And cable TV,” I added stupidly.
    “Are you sure you don’t have a phone?” Lucy asked Luanda.
    “At least send out your psychic vibes and get some help,” Ruth told her.
    “That’s not how psychic vibes work,” Luanda said, and bit her nails. Ruth snorted and adjusted her housedress. “I sense a lot of negativity in this room,” Luanda whined, working hard on chewing through the nail of her ring finger.
    “Really? You sense negativity?” Lucy shrieked. “Because, darlin’, I think it’s time I told you a thing or two about negativity.”
    “Lucy, please,” I said. “We need to save oxygen.” The room had gotten distinctly warmer, and I began to pant ever so slightly. What if we died there in the basement, suffocating in the airtight room? Suffocation was a lousy way to die—better probably than Ebola, but still really, really lousy.
    The panic room was working. I was panicking real well now.
    “I want to be old,” I told Bridget. “Like really old. Like
Guinness World Records
old.”
    “You say that now, but when it takes you an hour and a half to take a crap and you need a handful ofpills to bend down and tie your shoes, you’ll think different,” Ruth said.
    Lucy crossed her arms, like she was holding herself back, and she probably was. Luanda took up all her attention. The fact that we were locked in a panic room didn’t faze her at all.
    “They probably called the fire department already. It shouldn’t be much longer,” Remington said, towering over us. His voice was deep, rich, and silky and floated through the room, touching us all. Maybe he was closer to James Bond than to a dumb stud muffin, I thought optimistically.
    Despite his calm demeanor, Remington felt along the edges of the door, as if looking for a weakness in the structure, any way to get free.
    “I’m sure the air is running out,” I said.
    “Maybe we can get more air to come out of that vent,” Luanda said.
    We followed Luanda’s line of sight to a spot on the wall just under the high ceiling. Sure enough, there was a vent about a foot wide.
    “Air!” I yelled, and jumped up, sending pain shooting from my foot through my body.
    “I can’t reach it,” Remington said, stretching his hands toward the vent. “Would you climb up on my shoulders?” he asked me.
    My eyes flashed to his shoulders: massive, muscly, and the color of hazelnut creamer. Yum. I broke out into a fit of giggles, which rose to a fever pitch and finally settled down to loud snorting.
    “For the love of Pete,” Ruth grumbled. “Get a grip on yourself, girl.” She wagged her finger at Remingtonand demanded, “Hey, genius, why on earth did you pick danger-prone Daphne?”
    Ruth had a point. I probably shouldn’t have been his first choice, not with the nylon boot, but it delighted me to think of climbing all over Detective Cumberbatch, and for the moment I forgot that I was probably going to suffocate to death. Besides, there might be some real air through that vent, and I wanted to get my mouth as close to it as possible.
    Remington crouched down in front of me. “All aboard,” he said. I swallowed another fit of giggles and hitched myself onto his shoulders, wrapping my legs around his neck. He secured me, gripping my thighs, and stood up straight like he was carrying a small child, not a full-grown, corn-fed woman.
    “What do you see?” he asked as I peered through the