Flirtasaurus

by Erin Mallon

  FLIRTASAURUS

  Copyright © 2020 by Erin Mallon. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor: Jenny Sims

  Formatter: Nada Qamber

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber

  Dedicated to Jett, “The Best I’ve Ever Met”: the boy who teaches me more about love and dinosaurs than anyone else on this blue-green planet.

  Chapter One

  “Shit.”

  Oh, my gosh, no. Shit, shit, shit!

  “Hey! Hey, is anyone out there? I’m stuck in the elevator!”

  First day on the freaking job and I get stuck in the elevator. I think. Right? We’re not moving, so that must mean we’re stuck.

  Why am I using “we” statements? I’m alone. Alone in a stuck-ass elevator in a prestigious establishment without a friend or a resource to my name.

  “Buttons, buttons, buttons. I should press all the buttons.”

  Or press none of the buttons? Shouldn’t there be a universal protocol for what you do to all the buttons when you’re stuck in an elevator?

  I push the door open button.

  Nothing.

  The call button.

  Nothing.

  The little red firefighter hat button.

  Nothing.

  “I’m going for it. I’m pushing all the buttons.” I let out a surprisingly fierce but feral sound as I slide my hands down the entire panel of elevator buttons, a la Will Ferrell in Elf.

  “Rrrrrr-ahhhhhh!”

  Dammit.

  Nothing.

  All right. This is a museum, so the place is crawling with scientific minds, yeah? Surely, someone knows how to get a damn elevator door to open. I’m hella early, though, so I’m not sure anyone else is even around to hear me.

  “Not panicking. Not panicking. I’m not panicking.”

  I am totally panicking.

  “ANYBODY OUT THERE!? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

  I know what you’re thinking, but I’m gonna stop you right there. This is not one of those stories where the adorable hot mess of a woman spends twenty chapters bumbling and stumbling her way through life until, at long last, she finds a man who accepts all her quirks and crazy. Don’t get me wrong, I love those books, and I love me a hot mess, but that just isn’t me. I’m the opposite of a hot mess. I’m what you’d call a-a-a… cold… clean? Calm? No, that doesn’t really capture the feeling I’m going for here. A warm… organized person?

  What I’m saying is I have my proverbial shit together.

  Clearly.

  “GET ME OUT OF HERE OR IMMA LOSE MY SHIT!”

  Nope. Keeping my shit contained.

  “Breathing in… breathing out. Breathing in… breathing out.”

  Wow, that breathing stuff kinda sorta works. Who knew! I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored ceiling. Hm. Have you ever noticed that mirrored ceilings seem to be reserved solely for sex dungeons and elevators? Elevators and sex dungeons… what in the world do they have in common to require the same ceiling design?

  Oh man, I’m spiraling. All right, it’s pep talk time. I peer up at my reflection and look deeply into my own terrified eyes.

  “Calliope. Girlfriend. Today is not the day it ends for you. This internship is the gorgeous stepping-stone you’ve been waiting for to make all your paleontological dreams come true. You really think you’ve come this far just to die crazed and alone in an elevator sex dungeon in the children’s wing of Philadelphia’s Museum of Natural Sciences? No friggin' way! This is the first day of the rest of your freakishly successful life! Those dinosaurs aren’t going to dig up and study themselves! The world of science needs you! DO YOU SUCKAS HEAR ME OUT THERE? THE WORLD OF SCIENCE NEEDS ME! I AM THE ABSOLUTE SHIZZ, AND I DON’T DESERVE TO DIE THIS WAY!”

  “Hehe. Shizz.” The sound of a male voice suddenly rumbles in my head.

  “Who’s talking right now!?” My body jolts like I’ve been tasered. I whip my head left and right, but clearly, this dude is on the other side of the sealed-shut elevator doors.

  “You are talking right now. To yourself, apparently.”

  “You know what I meant, you-you-you… Snarky Jollyman!”

  “Snarky Jollyman! Oooh. Already doling out nicknames, are we?”

  “How long have you been listening to me?”

  “For a bit.”

  “O-kaaaay. Do you work here? Are you here to get me out?”

  “Yes, I work here, but… wait. Do I seem snarky to you?”

  “Our interaction began two seconds ago, so clearly I know nothing about you, but yeah, you seem snarky as hell.”

  “Snarky and jolly? Wow!” He laughs.

  No, actually. It’s not a laugh. It’s a chuckle. You know those back-of-your-throat chuckles that sound like choking on your own spit and gasping for breath while simultaneously impersonating a seal? Yeah, that kind. The kind of chuckle that signals true joy with zero fucks given for how ridiculous it sounds.

  “Cool. Don’t think I’ve ever been called snarky before. Jolly, sure, but never snarky. I recently decided to become more of a bastard, though, so snarky feels like a nice first step. Thank you for the encouragement. And who are you, emotional rude lady?”

  “None of your business! And don’t call me emotional! Or lady!”

  “You got it, ma’am.”

  “I am twenty-two years old, sucka. Screw the ma’ams.”

  “Do you call people sucka a lot?”

  “Do you stand around being useless a lot?”

  “Whoa. Guess I’ll be going then.”

  “No, wait! I’m stuck!”

  “I’m picking up on that, yeah. It’s just that usually when someone needs help, they are way nicer to their potential rescuer than you’re being to me right now.”

  “Uh, you are not my rescuer. I do not need a rescuer.”

  “Okay, cool. See ya!”

  “Stop! Please!”

  “There’s that magic word. Sure. What can I do for you?”

  “How about get you me out of here?”

  “Did you press the emergency call button?”

  “No. I just stood here and used my powers of manifestation to summon your snarky self to this spot.”

  “Well then, mission accomplished.”

  “Dude, of course I pressed the emergency call button.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “And the door open button.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “And the little red firefighter hat button.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I pressed ALL the buttons.”

  “Oh man, I don’t think you’re supposed to press ALL the buttons.”

  “IT’S NOT MY JOB TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THE ELEVATOR BUTTONS! IT’S YOUR JOB TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THE ELEVATOR BUTTONS!” For someone who is the opposite of a hot mess, I am starting to feel especially steamed.

  “It’s not, actually. I have no idea how to get you out.”

  “But you said you work—”

  “I work here, yeah. But I have nothing to do with maintenance or… gosh, I don’t even know whose jurisdiction it is to rescue people from stuck elevators. Fire department maybe?”

  “Will you please stop saying the word rescue? It makes me feel like a puppy. Or a Disney princess.”

  “Now, what exactly is wrong with either one of those fant
astic things?”

  “Absolutely nothing is wrong with rescue puppies. From now until the end of time, yes, please Adopt Don’t Shop.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Disney princesses, however, are royally fucked.”

  “What? No! Jasmine is the best!”

  “Jasmine fan, huh?”

  “Course!”

  “Let me guess. The seafoam bra top and the dip in her translucent jammie pants really do it for ya?”

  “No, actually. The fact that she gives Aladdin shit when he lies to her, tells her dad to screw off when he tries to control her, tells Jafar to his face he’s a punk who’d never deserve a woman of her caliber, oh and the adorable, gentle relationship she has with a fierce jungle cat who would do anything for her – those things do it for me.”

  “Interesting. The, uh… the, um… the fierce jungle cat who would do anything for her? His name is Raja, by the way.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, lady.”

  “Seriously, quit with the lady stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “Because there was silence for a second.”

  “I’m not one of those people who fears silence and feels the need to fill it.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Neither am I.”

  “Did you just sit down? It sounded like you just sat down.”

  “Well, it seems we’re going to be here a while, yeah?”

  “You’re going to wait with me?”

  “Course.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s… that’s really nice. Thank you. I just pressed all the buttons again, so—”

  “You gotta stop doing that!”

  “You gotta stop telling me what to do! “

  “A’ight. A’ight. Did you just sit down too?”

  “Yeah. This floor is heinous, but what the hell. Hey, um. Did you just say a’ight a moment ago?”

  “I think so?”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. Trying it out, I guess?”

  “Yeah, don’t do that. Doesn’t sound right from you. You’re clearly not an a’ight kind of guy.”

  “How can you tell?

  “Just a… a feeling I get from you.”

  “Oh.”

  Some of that silence descends between us again. I break it.

  “Anyway… I’m sure the maintenance guys, or the firemen, or whoever’s jurisdiction it is to understand elevator buttons will be here any minute.”

  “I hope not.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  Okay, can we take a time-out for a moment? Is anyone else hearing this man’s voice? This man’s delightful, honey-buttered, rumbly-crumbly-croissant, warm-hazelnut-coffee-on-a-Monday-morning voice? Hm. I must be hungry. I should’ve pre-gamed this morning and thrown a hard-boiled egg down the hatch or something. But don’t worry. They’re serving breakfast refreshments at the orientation, so I’ll be all good. If I ever get there of course. But even if I wasn’t hungry? Goddamn… this delicious voice of his would still fill. Me. Up. And that whole “I hope not” moment was definitely flirtatious, wasn’t it? Oh shit, I think he just asked me something requiring a response.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I was just asking you if—”

  “Wait. I just used an unnecessary sorry as a filler. I need to start over. ‘Fuck you, what?’ There, that’s better.”

  “What?”

  “Damn, I took that re-do too far, didn’t I? Now I really am sorry.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Before, I said, ‘Sorry, what?’”

  “So?”

  “Women use the word sorry as a filler way too often. Men don’t do that. Do you do that?”

  “I don’t even know what you’re—”

  “‘Sorry, could you pass the pepper?’ ‘Sorry, would you mind if I skootched by?’ ‘Sorry, but your massive man thigh is crushing my leg and your not-massive man sac clearly doesn’t need that much room to breathe.’ ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ I have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

  “No, you absolutely don’t. Okay, I get it. So, let’s go back a bit then and give you a chance to redeem yourself. I was talking… You were ignoring me…”

  “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was just…”

  “Just…?”

  “Well, I guess for a second, I just got a little… I dunno… lost in the sound of your…”

  “Voice? You like the sound of my voice?” He suddenly sounds like a demented grizzly bear.

  “Well, not when you deepen it like that! What the hell are you doing?”

  “I don’t know! You said you liked my voice, so suddenly, I couldn’t speak normally anymore. I guess I was trying to man it up.”

  “Well, then man it back down, dude.”

  “Like this?”

  Ah, that’s better. He’s back to his regularly scheduled rumbly-crumbly-make-my-belly-tumbly programming. Ew. Why am I thinking this way? I sound like a love-sick Dr. Seuss. Get it together, girlfriend.

  “Sure. Like that, yeah. That sounds… whatever. Yeah.”

  “So, listen. Someday, when we get you out of that elevator, would you, uh… maybe you’d want to, uh… I dunno, grab a coffee or something with me?”

  “Sorry, what? I mean ‘fuck you, what?’ I mean… yes! That actually sounds really… “

  EEEENG! EEEENG! EEEENG!

  And that is the moment when the alarms start sounding full force.

  “Damn, that’s loud!”

  “What?”

  “I said, damn, that’s loud! Is it just in the elevator or out there too?”

  “It’s out here too! Looks like people are evacuating. Fire drill? Maybe a delayed reaction to you pressing all the buttons?”

  “What if it’s a real fire! Shit, what am I gonna do stuck in here?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t leave the building without you.”

  Suddenly, another far less delicious male voice is speaking outside the elevator.

  “Sir, you need to leave the building immediately.”

  “Understood. But there’s a woman trapped in the elevator.”

  “We know. Hence the reason we’re here.”

  “A little late, don’t you think? She’s been pressing all the buttons for over ten minutes now.”

  “Oh, you’re never supposed to press ALL the buttons.”

  “I know that! I know!” I squeal from inside the elevator.

  EEEENG! EEEENG! EEEENG!

  Hey, uh…gosh, I don’t even know your name. What’s your name?”

  “Calliope!”

  “What-uh-pee?”

  “Calliope!”

  EEEENG! EEEENG! EEEENG!

  “What-uh-pee?”

  “Stop saying what-uh-pee!”

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the alarm. But the firemen are here to get you out!”

  “What?”

  “The firemen are going to get you out!”

  “Sir, you really need to evacuate immediately.”

  “Dude, I get it. I get it. They’re making me evacuate immediately! So, I’ll, uh, I’ll meet you outside on the front lawn, okay?”

  EEEENG! EEEENG! EEEENG!

  “By the young fawn!?”

  “Yup, on the front lawn! Oh, and my name is Ralph!”

  “Your name is Alf?”

  “Ralph!”

  “Alf?”

  “Yup, Ralph!

  EEEENG! EEEENG! EEEENG!

  “I’ll meet you on the front lawn. It’s been, uh… I’ve really, uh… You seem like a such a—”

  “Alright, that’s enough. Out of our way, Romeo.”

  The next thing I
know, the doors are being pried open, a fireman in full bunker gear is staring at me with his hand outstretched, and the snarky jollyman with the rumbly voice is nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Two

  Well, whaddaya know. I waited for him for a full thirty minutes and “Alf”, the elevator man, never showed. What a doof. Why tell me to meet you and then pull a no-show? Maybe I heard him wrong? Maybe the place where I waited was wrong? Nah. It looks like I just plain read our chemistry wrong.

  Chemistry was never my thing. Whatever. I shake it off like a one-woman Taylor Swift anthem.

  Now, don’t go rolling your eyes at my mention of Tay-Tay. I was judgy about her too until I watched her Miss Americana documentary a few months ago. And now? Now, I want to sip sauvignon blanc with Miss Swift and tell her all my secrets forever. We ladies have to build each other up, don’t you think? Instead of tearing each other down? Hell yeah, we do.

  “Alright. Room 514… Room 514… Ah, there it is.”

  I’m finally upstairs—after taking the stairs, thank you very much—and am rapidly approaching Room 514. I check the time on my phone. Sweet! Still a solid fifteen minutes before go-time. Not bad for being trapped in an elevator, then being swindled into a meet-cute that was neither meet nor cute. Meaning we did not actually meet, and that shit he pulled on me was not cute. You get what I’m trying to say? Ugh, I’m nervous. I’m not usually nervous in new situations. But this job? It means everything to me, and I desperately want to kick ass from minute one. Which, obviously, I will.

  “Deep breath… aaaaaand go.”

  I walk into Room 514 with supreme—albeit feigned—confidence and instantly lock eyes with some lone burly man sitting at the end of the conference table. He’s wearing black Carhartt work pants covered in saw dust and sipping on a coffee from a Styrofoam cup that he clearly got from the stack set up in the corner alongside some delicious looking donuts. Styrofoam in this day and age? Oh, hell no. The visitor suggestion box will definitely be hearing from me on behalf of the environment, ASAP.

  I take in the burly man again, who is making no attempt to speak to me. Huh. He doesn’t look like a scientist. Or a curator. Or a museumgoer of any kind, for that matter. Oh geez, that is really shallow and uppity and just plain lame of me. You can’t tell anything by looking at someone’s appearance. Lord knows I hate it when people spot my freckled nose and my round cheeks and call me “cute and innocent.” FYI: want to hop directly on my shit list? Tell me I look cute and innocent. And now here I am, judging this man by his appearance. For all I know, he could be a huge museum benefactor. He could be the lead excavator on Dr. Knowles’ next dinosaur dig. Hell, he could be my Alf. My Alf? Ew. Scratch the my. Never said it. Dammit, why am I still thinking about that guy?