Out of Reach (4 page)

I tune her out and quickly begin to refresh
my make-up. In my peripheral vision, I can make her out perched on
the corner of my desk gesturing wildly with her hands as she talks.
It’s unlikely she’s going to stop anytime soon. Melanie is like
dynamite: small but packs a big punch. At five-feet four-inches
tall, she is slim and athletic. I tease her about being small all
the time, but even I wouldn’t cross her when she’s angry. Blonde
curls bounce just below her shoulders; they always seem to have
that perfectly tousled look. Her aqua eyes gleam under the lights
in the office as she rambles on about a coffee order gone awry.
They are truly striking with her pale ivory complexion.

I focus on my own appearance in the mirror.
I pull my favorite eye pencil from my bag (Engraved by M.A.C.) and
quickly outline my top and bottom lids. Without a proper brush, I’m
forced to rely on my fingers to go back over the line, smudging and
softening it. Next I recoat my long pale lashes with mascara so you
can see they actually exist, and then finish off with a dusting of
bronze, shimmery shadow across my upper lids. The result is simple
and dynamic. The mascara and the eyeliner make my eyes pop while
the neutral shimmer keeps the focus on the hazel color of my eyes
and not my shadow. Hazel … what a pretty way of saying my eyes are
a muddled mess. Not green, not blue, and certainly not brown. I’ve
wished on more than one occasion that my eyes had committed to a
color. A vibrant, intense color, instead of a soft, subdued melding
of so many.

I sweep a little blush
across my cheekbones, which boast an abundance of freckles, trying
to add a little life to my weary face. I love my freckles and would
never dream of covering them up. Stepping back, I appraise myself
in the mirror.
Not too shabby for a
five-minute makeover
, I think to myself. I
adore makeup, but I rarely use much, preferring a classically
pretty picture to a wealth of fancy colors.

Reaching up, I pull out the
band holding my hair in its pony tail. A river of red falls down my
shoulders, coming to rest just below my bra line. Now, when I say
my hair is red I don’t mean it’s bright like a copper penny, or
dark like a sultry auburn. I mean it is
red
, a fierce bonfire encircling me
and threatening to consume everything around it. Grabbing my brush,
I do a quick run-through, getting the worst of the snarls out of it
and silently thanking God again for the blessing of straight
hair.

“Are we waiting for Kade?” I ask as the
thought strikes me that I haven’t seen our third wheel all day.

It’s about a six-hour drive from Phoenix to
San Diego. I’ve managed to shave about an hour off of that time. It
still might not be enough, though.

“Where’s the fire?” Z asks me.

“It’s Monday. Once I drop you off, I have to
make it to work before five.”

“Taking the job seriously, huh?” Z replies
sarcastically.

“The job, no. Just keeping up appearances.
The second Monday of the month Gwen and her pals go to McClaren’s
after work.”

“And if you’re not there she’ll, what,
commit suicide?”

Unperturbed I stare at Zafir. “No, of course
not, but everyone believes I’ve been at work. It’s expected that
I’ll be there.”

Tightening my grip on the steering wheel in
frustration, I hope the dueling semis ahead of us will end their
stalemate quickly.

“I hate it when they try to pass one
another. They’re going the exact same speed.” Smacking a palm
against the steering column, I switch lanes swiftly, guessing the
semi in the right lane will be the victorious turtle. Over a
thousand years of intuition proves true and the white semi ahead of
us slowly outdistances his orange opponent. As soon as a car’s
length of room develops between the two vehicles, I slip though the
gap and we continue the journey home at breakneck speed.

Pulling to the curb in front of a
nondescript apartment building about an hour later, I put the
vehicle into park and leave the engine idling. Z and I step out of
the SUV. I open the trunk and remove his duffel bag while he
retrieves his t-shirt from the backseat. He leaves me literally
holding the bag while he shrugs into the now dry shirt, pulling it
into place over his massive shoulders.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the thing from my
hand.

“Think you can bring the bike by work later
and take the Yukon off my hands?” I ask him.

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Z,” I tell him
before jumping back into the cab. I watch through the passenger’s
window as he ambles into the building heading for his penthouse
apartment. He looks tired, I think to myself as I pull away from
the curb and head for Preston-Ward.
We’re
all tired
. I rub a hand over my face.
Unfortunately the mounting fatigue cannot be swiped away as easily
as sweat.

Everything will turn around
by next year, it has to
, I tell myself
optimistically.

Thanks to speeding, it’s only 4:30p.m. when
I arrive at work. Smoothly I slide the Yukon into an open parking
space, take a deep breath, and disengage my seatbelt. Hurrying into
the building I grab a white lab coat off the hook in my office and
stow my duffle bag before rushing over to Lab 2A.

I slip the coat over my street clothes,
enter the lab, and pause on the landing. My co-workers are cleaning
up for the day and already some of them are headed my direction,
attempting to cut out a few minutes early. Quickly I implant a
false memory into the background of their minds that I have been
here at work all last week.

You might think pretending I’d been gone on
vacation would be easier but those stories require multiple lies
that I have to keep track of and affect a much larger population of
people. This lie only affects the few I work with and, even if they
can’t recall exactly what I did all week, they’d swear under oath I
was here. Since normally I’m a superb employee, past precedence
will lead my co-workers to assume whatever I did was of significant
importance to the current project.

First rule of thought manipulation: The
simplest change that affects the smallest number of individuals as
possible is the easiest for the human mind to accept and results in
the fewest complications.

Ducking out of the lab I return to my
office, hang my lab coat behind the door, and grab the toiletries
bag out of the duffel I took to Phoenix. Next I head across the
hallway and into the men’s room to freshen up. Unbuttoning my shirt
with haste I slide the garment from my broad shoulders and lay it
on the counter next to the washbasin. I run some water over my
face, finger comb my hair, and do a quick shave. When I’m finished
I dart across the empty hallway, lock the door to my office, and
don a clean shirt from my bag. Glancing at the clock on the wall I
see it’s 4:55p.m.—almost out of time. I repack my things and store
the duffle neatly underneath my desk where it won’t be noticed.
Stuffing wallet and keys into my jean’s pocket, I head down the
hallway to collect the girls and escort them to dinner.

A delightful melody of familiar voices
reaches my ears as I round the corner leading to Gwen’s office.
Melanie appears to be dominating the conversation, ranting about
some sort of disaster. Leaning my bulk against the open door frame,
I cross my arms over my chest. Gwen’s regal profile is visible in
the bathroom doorway. The arch of her brow and delicate line of her
jaw become accentuated as she tilts her head, brushing out her
fierce red hair. That radiant smile, the one she reserves only for
me, spreads across her face as our eyes meet in the mirror. Holding
her gaze I ask, “Do you like what you see?”

From her perch on Gwen’s desk, Melanie jumps
down, rushing to her friend’s defense, the double innuendo behind
my words going completely over her head.

“Give her a minute. You know she probably
locked herself in the lab all day, too consumed by work to eat or
use the bathroom,” she says, a sarcastic grin turning up the
corners of her mouth.

“Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side,”
Gwen reminds her good naturedly.

Before their mock bickering escalates, I
interject. “Amazons may not need to eat, but regular guys do, and
this one is famished.”

Casting an unabashed look my direction, Gwen
fires off, “Please, I’m six-foot in these shoes, tops. Besides how
else do you expect me to look you in the eye?”

Completely caught off guard by her
assertion, the laughter comes rolling out of my chest. Between
breaths, I manage to blurt out, “I don’t!” before another fit of
hysterics consumes me. A few seconds of this is all I can take
before I force myself to head back down the hallway to regain my
composure. The dynamic duo catches up with me at the elevator and
we enjoy the short ride to the main lobby together in companionable
silence.

Chapter 5

“I’ll have a burger, medium-well, and some
French fries,” I tell the waitress. “Oh, and we’ll need separate
checks please,” I quickly add, barely remembering to ask before she
heads off to put our order in. Sipping on my Coke and finally
starting to relax, I take everything in. The boisterous noise of
the TV commercials, sports announcers, fans cheering on their
teams, and music around the room is soothing. Probably because I
can blend into the background—no one seems to notice I haven’t
really said anything since we got here. I was initiated into the
Monday night group my very first week at Preston-Ward, although I
have a hunch it had more to do with Mark and Dan thinking I was
pretty and available than it did with my sparkling personality. I
am very outgoing outside of work, but at work I’m all business.

The Gang consists of Mark and Dan, both drug
reps like Melanie; Kade and Christine, both chemists working in Lab
2A; Jerry and Javier from the finance department; and Joe, Charlie,
and me from Lab 4B. Occasionally a few others from various
departments will join us, but we are the die-hards. We can be found
here at McClaren’s on the second Monday of every month, without
fail.

“Can I refill your Coke, miss?” the waitress
asks.

“Yes, please,” is outta my mouth before I
even think about it.

“Oh no you don’t,” Melanie exclaims. “I just
got a pitcher, and it’s your duty to help me finish it,” she says,
slamming a glass down in front of me so hard that a third of the
beer sloshes out onto the table.

“You’re wasting it, you silly bitch. Now top
me off, please.”

She does so while I clean up the spill that
is slowing spreading across our table. Thankfully the waitress
chooses this moment to reappear with my Coke and a towel. After
wiping down the table, Melanie and I settle back into our chairs.
Catching her eye, I arch my eyebrow and tilt my head in the
direction of the bar. At the end of the bar, perched on his usual
stool with his back to us watching the Padres game, is Kade.
Melanie giggles and, in unison, we raise our glasses, holding them
out toward Kade and shout, “To our designated driver!” before
taking a long swig.

Turning a fierce glare on us, he warns,
“Behave,” before turning back to the game. We both break down
laughing and I wipe away the moisture leaking from my eyes as the
giggles fade.

Our waitress returns with food and I wave
Kade over to join us as she expertly doles out everyone’s dinner.
“If everything looks okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check
on refills,” she announces before heading back to the kitchen.

We dig in and I sit
enjoying the companionable silence. Well, I’m silent at least. Mark
and Dan are regaling us with stories of their trip to Las Vegas
last week for some pharmacy convention.
Geez
, I think,
only three beers in and I can’t even remember the name ...
and it had a simple acronym.
Inhaling a
few more fries to help offset the effects of the alcohol, I try to
refocus on the story. Apparently, in the pharmacy world, the fact
that drug reps can’t give away free pens and other random crap
anymore is a big deal.

About halfway through our pitcher Melanie
gets up and heads off towards the bar.

“Hey grab me a ...” Dan starts to yell
before I effectively kick him under the table.

“Shush! Dan, leave her be,” I chastise him.
Rolling his eyes, he returns to his conversation while trying to
flag down the waitress. Shifting my chair slightly for a better
view, I watch Melanie. She was wearing her man-eater look when she
left the table, so I’m pretty sure I know what she’s about. I watch
as she slowly winds her way toward the bar. Scanning the crowd I
try to locate her intended target.

“Care to make a wager?” Kade whispers next
to my ear.

“You’re on,” I say. “Stakes?”

He leans back in his chair, silent for a
moment before answering. “Loser pays for lunch sometime in the
foreseeable future.”

“Deal,” I say. “Do we need to shake on
it?”

Laughing, he barks out, “No, now pick your
mark.”

Quickly I scan the crowd again, just to be
sure I haven’t missed anyone. “There, across the bar. The blonde
with the great smile, in the blue shirt. Do you see him?” I ask
Kade.

“I see him,” he says. “And you couldn’t be
more wrong; you’re making this too easy. Are you sure you don’t
want to try again?”

“No,” I say. “And don’t insult me. I think I
know my best friend a little better than you do. Who’s your
bet?”

Kade takes my biting remark in stride. “You
see the table just behind your blonde?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“She’s headed for Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome
on the left.” Kade grins down at me and I just glare at him, more
than a little testy from his earlier comment.