Page 3 of Spade

“No. I’m not in a cage.”

“Are you sure?”

That was a sharper question than she usually allowed herself. I respected it, so I didn’t lie.

“I built my own cage. I’m the only one with the key.”

She looked at me, really looked, and for a second I thought she might say something honest. Instead, she reached for her pen and said, “That’s all the time we have for today, but I’d like to see you again next week.”

The closing script. I nodded, picked up my jacket, and stood. I could feel the imprint of my palms on my thighs, a ghost touch that would last all the way to the parking lot.

Just as I reached the door, she said my name. Soft, careful. “Spade.”

I stopped, half-turned.

“It’s okay to use the tissues.”

I smiled. “Not my style.”

Outside the room, the air felt heavier, thicker. The scent of lavender still clung to my clothes, and I hated that it did.

I walked to the elevator, ran my fingers over the frayed edge of my jacket, and tried to forget what it felt like to fit my arms around something small and fragile and still lose it anyway.

The elevator opened, I stepped on, and the doors glided shut with the kind of finality that made my neck tense. The walls inside were stainless steel and polished, but not enough to hide a life’s worth of shoe-scuffs and fingerprints. My own reflection was a hard line running vertical, cut in two by the seam of the doors. The overheads cast a strip of hospital white that buzzed even when you told yourself it was silent.

A track of elevator muzak—someone’s limp take on a chart hit, the edges rounded until it meant nothing—filtered through the tinny speakers overhead. I pressed L for lobby and watched the red LED over the doors glow, dull and accusing.

I didn’t notice him at first. I was busy tracking my own pulse—up, but not over. The air in elevators always smelled faintly of metal and old rubber, but this one had a halo of chemical sweetness that didn’t belong. I found him in the reflection first, a distortion at the edge of my periphery.

He was already standing closer than you’d expect for strangers. Faded green jacket, black lettering over one pocket. Mechanic’s gear, but clean enough to suggest he didn’t actually work on engines anymore. The jeans were stained at the knees and thighs, but not the hands. His shoes were loafers—out of place, but he wore them like they’d been forced on him, maybe as part of some dress code he didn’t believe in.

I shifted a fraction to the side, enough to mark a boundary without inviting conversation.

He didn’t care about boundaries. His shoulder brushed mine, casual and deliberate all at once, and I felt his eyes sweep down my arm to where my hand hung loose at my side. He wore cologne strong enough to cover up whatever the jacket couldn’t. I could taste it when I inhaled.

The elevator started its descent. The floor indicator blinked six, five, four. I felt him shift, the heat of his body moving closer. His hand dropped to his hip, thumb hooked into the belt loop, then it crept out and hovered at the seam of my jeans. Not touching, but close enough to make his intention clear.

My skin went cold, and then everything inside me went very still. Not fear. Not surprise. More like the sensation of seeing a spider crawl up the wall in a room you’ve already swept twice.

I said nothing.

He edged in closer, using the movement of the elevator as an excuse. His breath hit the side of my face, thick and slow. “You’re pretty tall for a chick,” he said, voice slurred just a hair. “You play basketball or something?”

I didn’t bother answering. The doors weren’t going to open in time.

His hand drifted, the back of his knuckles grazing the outer edge of my thigh. I let my body go limp for a second, enough to throw him off, then used my elbow to pin his wrist to the wall. I rotated my body, stepped into his space, and felt him brace in surprise.

His lips split in a dumb smile. “Whoa, hey—”

That’s when I snapped his pinky back at the first joint. Not a lot—just a warning, the kind of move that tells you I know exactly how much force to use and what happens if I decide to keep going.

He gasped, the noise guttural and high. “Jesus—what the fuck?”

I stared at him, dead on. “Don’t touch people you don’t know.” I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.

He yanked his hand back, cradling it against his chest, eyes wet. The smell of his aftershave turned sharper, like citrus left too long in the sun.

The elevator hit three, then two. I could feel the adrenaline moving through me in a clean, clinical line. He pressed himself as far into the corner as the cab would allow, mumbling apologies that barely made it past his lips.