Escape (Part One) Read online

  Escape

  Part One

  by

  Zelda Reed

  Copyright

  First Original Edition, August 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Zelda Reed

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  One

  Let me guess, you’re a Chinese kind of girl.

  Wrong again.

  Thai?

  No.

  Japanese.

  Nada.

  Alright. What kind of issues do you have with the Asian race?

  My laughter surprised me. Sudden and bright it fluttered from my throat and into the air, catching the attention of the three other assistants around me. A wave of heat crawled up my neck, coloring the tips of my ears bright red. I ducked my head and turned my attention back to my phone, hidden beneath my desk and atop my lap.

  The other assistants were used to this, a random chuckle or an uncontrollable smile stretching across my mouth as I stared down at my lap.

  The first time it happened Monty grinned and said, “Someone’s on Tinder.”

  I shook my head, “Not Tinder. MatchU.”

  It was an app developed by an NYU grad for college students in New York to anonymously hook up with one another. Within three months the rest of New York was allowed to sign up and the app exploded. There were no profile photos and no real names, just the option to write a short description and the knowledge that everyone using the app was located somewhere in the city.

  My sister, Laura, and I made accounts out of boredom. In our kitchen we kept a chalkboard tally of how many unsolicited dick pics we received each week.

  Two months ago I received a surprisingly thoughtful message from a user named brownsfan6.

  You own your own yoga studio? That’s more than most women in their forties accomplish, nevertheless someone in their twenties. You’ll have to tell me how you did it.

  It was the first time someone didn’t ask to see my tits.

  Brownsfan6 was a San Francisco transplant who owned a small startup in Brooklyn. He described himself as tall and someone mom’s found handsome. He could be the man you brought home to meet the family, or the man who, after a night alone, you would never speak to again. His business kept him busy during most hours of the day and at thirty-two he was fed up with patrolling bars for women.

  I'm not looking for anything serious, he warned after we'd been messaging for two weeks.

  Good, I wrote back, neither am I.

  Across from me Carrie, one of the other assistants, snapped her fingers and my head popped up. Quickly I tossed my phone in my purse and set my fingers on my keyboard, eyes trained on the blank email in front of me.

  I was supposed to be writing a scathing email to my boss's agent, complaining about the lack of press he received for his last novel, but I'd done nothing all morning but text brownsfan6. Carrie's snapping was her way of warning me that my boss was stepping out of his office.

  I felt him looming behind me. His arms crossed over his expensive grey suit and his jaw covered in stubble from the weekend. He narrowed his green eyes as he said, "Alice, my office, now."

  I turned my head to respond but he was already storming back into his office, shoes sliding against the black wooden floor.

  On the twenty-sixth floor of a Manhattan office building, my boss's office faced Central Park. His right wall was covered in bookshelves, climbing eight feet above my head. Bright white walls were to my left where a ten thousand dollar painting, painted by his mother, hung between two Greek busts he inherited from his grandparents.

  My boss sat in a large leather chair, his feet kicked up atop his glass desk, pen twirling between his fingers as he said, “Close the door."

  I couldn’t stand the way my throat tightened whenever he gave me an order, his words always sliding a thin film of fear into my ears. I shut the door behind me and strode across the room.

  I moved to sit down on the chair across from him but he raised his hand said, "Don't bother. You won't be here long."

  On my first day, working for Chace Evans, his mere presence made me sweat. He was an award winning author and like most of the girls I knew in college, I first bought his books because of his portrait on the back cover. But the more of his work I read, the more I became enamored with the way he strung together words. His prose was fluid and beautiful. Every novel of his dealt with a troubled young man, often unnamed, who spent each page searching for purpose. Sometimes they found it, often they didn’t.

  I collected his books like my mother used to collect shoes. A pile of them were neatly stacked beside my bed in college. One drunken night I debated tattooing a quote from his book on the inside of my arm. I dreamed meeting him, of having lengthy conversations about the months he spent in England, drinking too much, fucking too much and crying too much, until he woke up in Wales, hung over and enlightened.

  My Creative Writing professor introduced us, months after Chace and three other writers decided to rent out a floor in an office building. He said it was, "A more efficient way to handle both the business and creative sides of things." All four of them were looking for assistants and I applied, knowing I would never get picked. But I was.

  Chace made it clear the first day I stepped into the office that we were not equals. I didn't disagree with him. He was dangerously handsome, turning heads whenever he walked into a room. With his broad shoulders and strong build, he made mouths water, everyone always itching to tear off his tie and see him naked.

  I entertained a few fantasies and generally acted like a school girl, stammering over my words whenever he looked at me and finding any reason to brush against him. But after a month of working for Chace, he beat all attraction out of me when I realized: he was a grade-A asshole.

  His sharp gaze never wavered from mine as he motioned towards the stack of papers resting near the far corner of his desk.

  "Is that your next novel?" I asked.

  He nodded. "All eight hundred pages of it. Due to my publisher in," he checked his watch. "Thirty hours."

  I grabbed the stack, the papers heavy against my palm. "I'll have this bound and sent off within the hour."

  Chace tipped his head back, his laughter husky and mocking. His straight, white teeth glittered as he smiled. "Sent off to who?"

  My eyebrows furrowed. "Your publisher."

  He laughed again. "You’re holding the unedited manuscript."

  "Then I'll drop it off at Sue's.” Sue was his editor.

  "Sue was inconsiderate enough to go into labor," he said. "I've been told she'll be wrapped up for the next twenty hours or so.”

  "Then I'll call one of the editors we have on file."

  Chace waved his hand, dismissing my suggestion as he stood. His fingers gripped the sides of his suit jacket as he said, "On your resume, how fast did you say you could read?”

  My throat tightened. "Two pages a minute."

  It was a gross exaggeration, one my sister warned would come back
and bite me in the ass but I had to write something to make me stand out. Chace knew it was bullshit. He’d been waiting for months to throw it in my face.

  A grin broke out across his mouth. "Let's see," he said, extending his fingers. "With eight hundred pages and your reading speed, you should be done with my novel in...Seven hours, give or take."

  My palms began to sweat. "I have to take breaks," I said, my voice cracking.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Do you?" He walked in front of his desk. His slow footsteps lead him closer to me. I could smell his cologne, thick and spicy as it ran beneath my nose and wrapped around my neck. "That whole novel was written in nine hour spurts. Inspiration would strike and," he snapped his fingers. "I was off running like an animal. No breaks, no food, just two glasses of water and a cup of coffee."

  The tips of his shoes were inches away from mine.

  "I don't think I can do that."

  “You can and you will.” He grinned. "You will hand that novel to me, completely edited, first thing tomorrow morning or you're fired."

  My eyes widened. I pulled the manuscript closer to my chest, opening my mouth to protest when he raised his hand and turned around. He was finished hearing from me.

  My mouth ran dry, my chest tightened, and my fingers trembled around the stack papers. I felt a panic attack erupting in my stomach and turned towards the door, in hopes of rushing to the bathroom before it exploded.

  My hand was on the knob when Chace whistled for my attention.

  "Oh and one more thing," he said. "If I see you on that phone of yours again, I'm going to toss it out my window."

  Two

  “He’s such a fucking asshole!” I shouted, dropping two glass bowls in my kitchen sink.

  From the other side of the kitchen counter, propped up in their high chairs, my niece and nephew giggled, clapping their hands excitedly as suds flew up and covered my hair, face and arms.

  “Whoa, language,” my sister said, rushing in from the living room, kissing the tops of Bobby and Mallory’s heads, before entering the kitchen with her arms crossed.

  I gripped the sink, my fingers curling around the grey metal. My breath moved through me violently as I shut my eyes and tried to think of something peaceful. A meadow, a bird singing in the tree, my mother’s face lighting up in the sun, Chace’s grin as he tossed his half-edited novel over his shoulder, papers soaring around him as he said, You’re fired, Alice. Pack up your shit and go.

  My sister placed her hand on my shoulder and I opened my eyes. Her smile was soft and sweet as she said, “I got the dishes. Why don’t you go back to editing that prick’s book.”

  I shook my head. Laura’s curly hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, winged eyeliner framing her brown eyes, bright and sparkling against her freckled skin. She was dressed for work - black pants, black button down, black shoes, and earrings large enough to be noticed but small enough not to distract. She was a server at one of the hippest bars in Brooklyn, frequented by people like brownsfan6. Young, wealthy, and trendy.

  “I can do it,” I said, dipping my hands in the water. “You’re about to be on your feet for eight hours.”

  “Seven,” she said, as if that made a huge difference. She bumped my hip with hers, pushing me out of the way. “And besides, these dishes belong to me and the kids.”

  I gave in easily, trudging towards the living room after kissing my niece and nephew on the cheek.

  Chace’s novel was spread on our coffee table, two hundred pages down since five o'clock. It was nearing nine and staring at the remaining six hundred pages made my temples ache.

  I collapsed on the couch, sinking into the worn out cushions as my sister hummed at the sink. From where I was sitting I could still see her, our nearly open living space leaving nothing but the two bedrooms and one bath hidden from view.

  Our rooms were on opposite sides of the apartment, mine significantly smaller since Laura had to share hers with the kids. Two cribs sat near the barred window, bolted shut after our apartment was broken into the first weekend we moved in.

  Despite the waves of gentrification that washed over New York, we lived in the pocket of Hell’s Kitchen where violent drunks roamed in and out of our building and our landlord had yet to fix our dishwasher. But it was an apartment we could afford.

  If I lost my job my sister would have to pick up shifts to cover my half of the rent. Seven hours a night would turn into fourteen hour days and I would never place a burden like that on her shoulders. And I, who had the upper arm strength of a guppy, would be terrible at waiting tables.

  I plucked a healthy chunk of papers from the coffee table and set them on my lap, starting on the third chapter when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was brownsfan6.

  You should come out tonight.

  Oh?

  I’m meeting a few friends for a drink.

  I tried to imagine him sitting at a round booth at my sister’s job, his brown curly hair resting against the red cushion, the tea candles hanging from the chandelier above his head, bringing out the gold flecks in his eyes. A neat, dark beard would cover his jaw, skin tan from the camping trip he took last week.

  Of course, he probably didn’t look anything like that. It was just my conjured image of him, a wish list of attractive features pasted onto one man.

  I thought you were over the bar scene.

  It’s a friend’s birthday.

  I sighed as I looked down at my boss’s novel, hefty and unfinished.

  I would love to but we started late night yoga sessions this week.

  Sounds sexy. Sign me up.

  I laughed, catching Laura’s attention as she set the last bowl in the drying rack.

  She glanced at my phone. “Are you talking to that guy again?”

  A light blush crept up my cheeks. “Yeah. He invited me out.”

  She wiped off her hands with a towel. “You should go.”

  “I can’t,” I said, picking up and dropping the papers on my lap.

  My sister rolled her eyes. She picked up my nephew and set him on her hip before turning to lift my niece. “Your boss is gonna have a hard time finding someone else to put up with his shit and he knows it. Which is why I can’t understand why he’s pushing you so much.”

  “Maybe he knows I can do better?”

  “Oh yeah, like you’re some kind of slacker.” I didn’t mention that brownsfan6 was distracting me at work. She set the twins on either side of me, Bobby leaning against my arm, Mallory laying on her back. Laura gripped my shoulder as she said, “Go. Get out of the house for once and have some fucking fun.”

  I smiled at her, attempting to pull the corners of my mouth further out but they wouldn’t budge. “I can’t.”

  She dropped her hands and dramatically sighed.

  I tilted my head back on the couch as my fingers flew across my screen.

  Not just yet.

  But when?

  I stared down at Chace’s novel.

  Bobby slowly fell asleep against me as Mallory hummed quietly to herself. Near the front door Laura checked her purse for her keys, her lipstick, her pepper spray and I picked up my red pen from the coffee table.

  I don’t know.

  Three

  Around three am, when Laura stumbled in the front door, exhausted and smelling of cigarettes, I made the last mark on Chace’s novel and passed out on the couch. I was up before my alarm rang at seven, dragging myself out of the living room and into the shower where the cold water kept me awake.

  I was exhausted. The soles of my shoes scratched against the streets of New York as I took the subway to Starbucks and a cab to the office. In the backseat I sucked down a cup of coffee that burned the roof of my mouth.

  “Is this it?” the cab driver said, slowly pulling up to a portion of the street crowded with paparazzi. Expensive cameras hung from their necks, bags rested against their hips, and hefty lenses in their hands.

  I sighed and
slid down in my seat. “Yeah, this is it. Just give me a minute.”

  I finished my first cup of coffee before paying and yanking open the back door. The heads of the paparazzi flung towards me. Their fingers grasped at their cameras, a wave of disappointment moving through them when they realized I was no one special, just Chace’s assistant. Although they weren’t crowded outside of the building for him.

  The second the elevator doors slid open on my floor, I heard her: Jennifer Mitchel screaming behind Chace’s closed office door.

  The entire floor was crowded around my desk, the three other assistants and their bosses stifling laughter behind their hands as something shattered against the floor. It was probably the glass vase of roses I ordered for Jennifer’s birthday, delivered to her apartment yesterday morning. I cut out articles from People Magazine, sent Chace emails with links to her interviews in Variety and on YouTube, where she repeated over and over that she couldn’t stand receiving roses, because they were the most impersonal gift a man could ever give a woman. Chace didn’t listen.

  “You think I don’t know my own girlfriend?” He spit at me and the truth was, he didn’t know her at all.

  “Who the fuck is she?” Jennifer screamed, voice clawing its way out of her throat as I set Chace’s novel on my desk.

  Gabby, one of the other assistants, passed me a soft smile before whispering, “Is he cheating on her?”

  Probably.

  Jennifer was one of the most sought after actresses in Hollywood. Tall and blonde, there wasn’t a director alive that didn’t want her in front of their camera, captivating audiences with her bright and sultry smile, seductively walking red carpets from New York to Sydney. But her fame meant nothing to Chace. He was enthralled with her for all of twenty four hours before his eyes began to wander.